Slip Into the Night
by victimoffiction
Summary: The year is 1871 in Paris and a breathtaking fortress, the Opera Populaire, stood ingrained with a dooming love that echoed through each hollow on that one fateful night. Don Juan had played its last notes and the choices had been made. But, an end isn't always final. Danger still lurks behind every corner. Eventual ALW AU. Will update chapters every other week, if not sooner! E/C
1. Chapter 1

**(note added 12/30/14- I wanted to put this here so it was seen when this story was first clicked! I am in dire need, and would love, a beta, so if you are interested, please pm me!**

**Also: The entire first five or so chapters will be revised when I find the time, now that I have learned so much more about writing. But, if you have read from the beginning, do not fear... I will not change any aspect of the story, just how the ideas are executed.)**

**Our Parisian songbird is now alone - Raoul being the _hero_ and grabbing a carriage to take his damsel away from the theater - and is trying to gather her thoughts in her dressing room before she leaves the Populaire. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of PotO, though one can only wish... **

**Christine**

**.**

**.**

Looking down, even in the dark I could see my hands shaking. How could they still be shaking?

I stared hesitantly at my face in the small, bronze mirror on my dressing room table and was met with the sad gaze of a stranger. Her eyes were ringed red and her skin a ghostly pallor. My battered reflection looked small and frightened, as much as it did when I first came to live at this haunting opera house as an orphan. My cheeks were stained with tears, the glistening paths serving as an embellished reminder as to why I was in here and every moment that had preceded.

Raoul was waiting for me on the streets behind the building with a carriage, a coachman prepared to aid us on our flight. A hungry mob had already formed to seek out the phantom while we were in the lair, clad with torches and rifles to end his reign.

There'd be too many questions if I were to be seen making this escape. Most of Paris had already seen him whisk me down to the cellars during the finale of his opera, _Don Juan Triumphant_.

Those questions… I was not sure I'd ever be able to answer them, for I did not know the answers myself.

_Focus, Christine._

I had to pack up the bare minimum of my necessities and then sneak out through the back corridors that sprouted from the hall of my dressing room; Raoul had found us a room at an inn to take refuge in until we could go to the country to be wed, starting our lives together away from the drama inlaid here in Paris.

Somewhere very far away…

_Take the boat, swear to me, never to tell._

Another tear slipped without permission and I cursed myself silently for being so weak. How had any of this happened? How could it have? It had all been a dream blurred to incomprehensibility with vicious ink, everyone pulled on by the strings of Fate and nightmares. _Must_ have been.

As the air in the room grew colder with night's chill, I wrapped a warm, velvet cloak around my hunched shoulders and grabbed my bags. Meg would surely send the rest of my things to me after we had settled— unless, of course, Raoul deemed it unsafe to share our whereabouts.

_The secret you know, of the angel in hell._

With an uneasiness at the thought, I blew out the candles and watched light drain out of the room, but not before I snuck a glimpse at the floor-length mirror I had been so desperately averting my eyes from.

_Go now - _

Even in the dark, the stripe of light from the door's outline threw a slash of reflecting white on the smooth surface, gluing my eyes to the spot. Unhealthily, I had been swallowing down every thought that came into my head from tonight's events, banishing them to the deepest part of my mind. The thoughts could be drowned, but his words remained ringing in my ears.

Ignorance was temporary, only pushing the thoughts down to boil in my stomach. Nothing got rid of them. Nothing _could. _

_Go now, and leave me!_

An ache spread through my chest as I stood in the dark; I closed my eyes and took a shaky intake of breath, bunching the fabric of my cloak in my clenched fingers. My soul was being tugged at like a string, every ounce of me longing to step through that glass door and pretend as if the past months had not even happened. I snapped out of the daze at the sound of howling hysteria and pounding footsteps up and down the halls, urging myself to stop my madness and leave the room with no glance back.

Looking back would be dangerous.

I grabbed the edge of a chair upon my exit, my touch meeting the smooth, satin surface of my discarded wedding dress. I dropped the fabric, gave a strangled cry, and rushed to the brass doorknob, feeling on the brink of hysterics. Once I crossed the threshold into the lighted hall full of frenzy and color, I pretended to forget all that had happened more and more with each step I took— to forget that he would be _right_ down those halls, only a short way away. I wanted to forget how his pleading cries for me to leave and forget him had pierced my heart, while his eyes had begged me to stay, to show him that love existed. The memories would not leave!

It seemed as if the Opera Populaire itself was alive and breathing with fear and havoc. Girls ran by me, hopelessly distraught as they picked up the skirts to the costumes of a forgotten opera; men stalked by, leaning towards each other in a sense of shared blood-lust over hushed strategies for their attack.

No one would notice me slip by with my hood up, though my heart raced along with every echo and scuff of my hurried steps. For all they knew, I was meeting a tragic end in the 'monster's' chamber.

"I think I saw an entrance to his labyrinth, near the stage props!"

"Is it true he captured Christine Daae?!"

"Why aren't we storming the cellars!"

"My dear Piangi, oh my love. You can move faster, you lowly fools!"

The crowds rushed by me in mobs, frantically speaking. I, on the other hand, was so lost in my own worried thoughts that I would've made wrong turns if I hadn't known the opera house like the back of my hand. The sound of revolvers clicking into place, a sword ripping out of its sheath, the roar of blue flames… _No, _I thought. _Don't think about him._ _Don't worry about him. He's a murderer. _

My concurrent thoughts, polar opposite, drowned out my weak loathing. _No one deserves to die, nor do you want him to. You still feel his lips on yours, you know what you felt as Raoul steered the boat away. _I wanted to scream.

This can't happen now; these are supposed to stay buried.

_You know what you felt._

I was in the deeper part of the corridors now, the crowd's noise only a distant and garbled sound, as if coming from underwater. I had calmed slightly, pretending as if I, myself, by leaving the heart of the panic, had escaped from my own harrowing tale… as if all of this had happened to some other unfortunate soul. How else was I supposed to continue on? I took the silent moment to think. _He let me go. _I knew I did not want Erik dead, just as I had not wanted that fate for Raoul. Erik, even cloaked by lies as my Angel, had helped me cope through much of my despair growing up. He had been my sole confidant in life and had taught me of the world. His fantastical stories would transport me far away from the monotonous routines of my everyday life at the theater. They surely wouldn't kill that Erik if they knew him.

_Do I truly know him?_

The cold, wet stone of the back halls were all I saw as I made my trek, moonlight bleeding through cracks in the stone.

My steps clicked, methodic and constant, for a while, turning in all the places where I had scratched the stone wall a bit to mark the way and I walked on numbly, blissfully ignorant to my emotions.

_Christine, I love you..._

The charade ended as quickly as it came as a familiar sensation overtook me. Goosebumps ran down my back, slowing me to a halt as I heard the most haunting melody from somewhere far below me, the sob in my throat cracking into the air.

How could I hear it so clearly?

I closed my eyes instantly and breathed heavily, the air that filled my lungs melodic and smooth and familiar.

The music penetrated the floors - five floors! - and encompassed me in its beauty like an embrace.

Never had I heard more emotion in a song than this… more life in an instrument. It felt as if I had been stabbed with ice, yet made my heart ache with pleasure in its unnerving effect. Erik... Erik composed stories and emotions unlike the known musicians of the time who created predictable melodies for their elite entertainment. I heard his reaction to me pulling off his mask, his conflicting emotions as he took me down through the tunnels to his home, those conflicting emotions when I kissed him, and finally his anguishing thoughts as I eventually left with Raoul… the notes spoke the words of his mind. He did not want to let me go. He did not, and I heard it produced through the agonized crescendos that turned into gravely soft, floating notes as high as he used to make me sing.

I dropped my bags and slid to the ground, ignoring the ripping of my cloak as stone scraped my back, falling into tears. My sobs seemed to dance with the rise and fall of the notes.

_What have I done? _

It felt like my soul was trying to escape me, break from my skin as if it were its own person; the music beckoned me as an ocean's current pulls you in.

After what felt like hours his music slowed and calmed, and so did I.

The back of my shaking hand wiped my tear-stricken face and then braced the floor, pushing against it with all of my might while focusing on the smallest modicum of composure.

_Raoul._

How long had I been sitting here? A minute? ...An hour?

I stood up and brushed the damp gravel off of my hands, thinking of every trick possible to get his music and despair out of my head; crazy little rhymes and even the haunting stories my father used to tell me as a child.

If I didn't block it out, I knew I would never leave.

Slipping through a broken storm gate at the end of the hall, an entrance Meg and I had discovered as children, I was met with a cold blast of Paris air and a questioning look from Raoul as he tensely leaned against the carriage.

With a confused look and wary smile at my disheveled state he offered me his warm hand and helped me up the wooden steps of the carriage car, the driver practically pulling my bags from my unmoving grasp. The rough stone of the corridors had been more comfortable than these plush velvet seats, my every thought defiant towards leaving my home.

But, I knew it was our only option. I was no longer welcomed here.

Raoul's green-eyed stare was palpable. Was he angry? I wouldn't know, for my eyes were watching the opera house slip away as heavy snow cut the scene into shattering pieces.

**Erik**

**.**

**.**

My fingers grazed over the ivory of the piano and the worn parchment of my music.

Meaningless.

It was nothing but scales and empty melodies produced in a madman's agony.

With a growl, I pushed the papers off of the golden music stand in disgust, now enraptured by the flames of the candles nearest to me.

I needed a new distraction.

Though fleeting, they numbed my mind while I waited for death to take me.

Those men were audible, growing louder and closer; not all would fall to my traps.

The flames danced a duet with the wind, flickering their brilliant colors of blue and orange and gold, mesmerizing in a way that begged you to reach for them, to join the flame in its waltz of beauty.

_Beauty._

Oh, the cleverness of that flame, for it only plans to burn you with an incessant laugh.

What's another scar?

Upon contact, I immediately flinched back and ran down to plunge my screaming hand into the lake that bordered my home.

_Home._

Hell is the only home for my damned soul.

I walked to a Persian armchair facing out onto the lake and stared with scrutiny at my right hand. It was only pink from the heat; I didn't hold it long enough to do permanent damage.

My thoughts were numb as I mindlessly twirled her ring through my fingers, the lake's lapping even somehow quieter.

My grieving had ceased for the night, for this feeling of wretched loneliness had become so habitual it was almost as if it calmed me. _Almost._

Music had consoled me the most, as it always has. I gave my soul to the instrument, not even sure where my fingers would go next, producing a melody that was as new to me as it was to the stale, cold air encompassing my body.

A bitter laugh wretched itself from my throat.

I must behold a vindictive curse, for everything I touch turns to ash, disintegrating through my fingers while I stand motionless.

The flame was like Christine and I was her willing victim. She diverted me from my depressing life, her voice giving me life; she drew me in with her painful beauty like a siren lures its pitiful prey; but, when _she_ burned me, there was no water to extinguish that pain, that betrayal.

I idly touched my lips with the tips of my fingers, gently so as to not rub off the memory.

There was nothing to extinguish that pleasure. _Her eyes..._

The kiss was rather light and forced, for she knew she had to spend her life with me or watch her lover come to a painful end. …But, then she kissed me again.

I curled my lip and drew my brows together, playing with the cuff links on my jacket.

That time it was passionately deep. I had finally found the ability to touch her and reciprocate a response led completely by desire's command. And then, when she pulled away, it was as if we were the only two people there... the only two people to exist in the world.

Her drowsy eyes had searched my face— my deformed face, and for a moment, just one sweet and transient moment, I had felt whole. My bitter soul had unclenched its jealous grasp on my heart, allowing me to revel in the pure sweetness of her martyring deed.

I had felt _loved…_ something I had never felt before. Not even my own mother could stand my presence.

Christine's slow walk towards me was perceived a mere trick of the eye, for only minutes before she had spit her hatred at me, the words still ringing in my ears. The genuineness was far from likely, the thought only toying with my willing mind, and I thought it no more than a show - the last performance I'd see of her.

I could never make her stay, no matter what small hope she had given me in her love.

What kind of life would she have living with me? She was meant to soar above the world, her ethereal talent promising a wonderful life for her and I had no right to claim her as I so painstakingly tried. She was a child of the light while I recoiled from it, loving her from the shadows.

_Oh, Christine._ I had to let her go.

Ten lives full of moral living wouldn't merit me her love, she who chose the monster to spare the beauty.

Tilting my head, I thought in strange awe; the thought of her choosing me at all had never even brushed my mind. The boy had been pleading for her not to the entire time he lay prey in my noose. That noose— it may have been his neck it encompassed, but I was dying, suffocating in the bleakness and futility of my own self-constructed ruins.

Why had she not listened to him?

In my sick mind, twisted from madness, I was prepared to kill Raoul the minute I heard words leave her lips.

_What have I made of myself?_ I've never harmed anyone at the opera - I merely became the phantom for my own amusement of the mystery it beheld, allowing me to use my cunning talents at whim. What better façade to have when you were already forced to hide in shadows, masked by shame? The decision was made, long ago, that I would rather have all fear me, not daring to cross me, than to let my heart lay vulnerable to all who walk by the disfigured man, shouting their jests with no panic of counteract.

Everything I had worked for crumbled away when the de Chagny boy became the _abundantly_ generous patron of my opera house and fell in love with Christine.

He only noticed her when she became a star onstage with her debut of _Hannibal_, for only then was she worthy to be recognized by the _first class_ vicomte.

_I _was the one that was always there for her. He filled her head with empty promises and hasty confessions of love and she bought into all of it.

But, he was her childhood friend; he would always protect her and love her, he would proclaim with his trusting green-eyed gaze. It snapped my sanity watching her become brainwashed by that slave of prestige, the prized son who had the world handed to him on a gold platter.

Raoul became my target, a death-wish painted on his head in my mind with dripping red ink as he stood in the lake, demanding Christine's freedom and rattling the portcullis.

For at that moment, it had all clicked into place. I deemed him my outlet to take out each and every one of my problems on, ones not even he had control over. I was trapped and desperate, already accepting defeat.

_Either way you choose, you cannot win._

Lies, lies. Every word I had spoken tonight had bled with my own irony and self-hatred. Christine and Raoul could have not even been there for my words to still have a target.

Never had I planned to give her the impossible decision.

I was simply playing my own game - one with no victors.

How could I be so daft with my methods? I wanted her to see the man beneath the mask and instead I showed her that I was even more horrid on the inside.

_It's in your soul that the true distortion lies._

Her words will haunt me, though I'm sure my hours are numbered by now. The mobs were going to approach.

Death, my final punishment, was going to approach.

Breaking off my dismal thoughts, my bitter eulogy, I stood up and let out a ragged breath. Rage boiled in me as hot as the fires of hell - rage towards myself and at the cruel world who rejected me.

I grabbed a candlestick off of the ground, ignoring the pain in my hand from the burn, and pulled down the curtains that hid my torturous mirrors, smashing and smashing, laughing in triumph at the sound of the shards cracking.

It took away the sight of my bare face and I didn't feel the glass cutting me.

I felt nothing at all.

**Christine**

**.**

**.**

The little room at the inn was quaint and warm, untouched by tonight's events.

I, on the other hand, felt like I was suffocating.

The sheets of the bed were drowning me as Raoul's anchored arm held me down. His arms... they were so strong and familiar, yet something felt off. I was not sure whether his tight hold was for protection… or perhaps his own paranoia of me leaving in the night.

It was not adoring.

During the entire carriage ride he had acted strange, tapping his knees anxiously and staring at me accusingly. A worry line had troubled his brow, though now in his sleep, his relaxed face looked as young and handsome as it did when we were just young friends.

_Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing._

Did he think I regretted my choice to leave Erik behind?

_Erik_…

The thoughts I had been suppressing with sheer will came crashing down like a roaring wave and I squeezed my eyes tight, but the images wouldn't stop.

First, a flash of his blue grey eyes darted across my vision, as piercing as knives— the eyes whose stare I could _feel_ as his gaze traveled my body. Those eyes… they held all of the sorrow of the world in their infinite wells.

No one should ever feel that little worth.

_No._ He killed Buquet and Piangi, I must get him _out_ of my head.

My silent pleas were futile for the pictures in my mind continued on their relentless path. His black leather gloves were what came next, the skintight boundary I had wanted gone as he grasped my hand the first time he revealed himself to me; the boundary that I wanted gone as his skilled and deft hands would graze my shoulders, then my arms, and then my waist… _no, no, no!_

These thoughts are not appropriate for a young woman, especially for a vitcomtess to be! …Especially not about him.

He controlled my mind, I wasn't myself when I thought of him in those strange states of bliss.

I'm never myself.

I don't know who I am!

Maybe I'm the mad one.

My breaths grew rapid and a cold sweat broke on my neck, pasting my brown curls in place.

Everyone else decides how I must live my life and never have I questioned their judgments for I trusted them fully: my father, Madame Giry, Erik, and now Raoul.

It was frightening, for I had ceased to possess the ability to decide my own life and fate; I'm quite surprised I even came across a decision to the phantom's request just a few hours ago.

My body shuddered under the weight of the memory.

Where was the relief? _Where was it?_

I will never forget a single detail from this night.

Opened eyes did not keep the image away, the scene lain out before me like characters on a miniature stage. The lake was luminescent and cold and the golden candles threw shadows on every wall. His whole home was a grey, gold, and deep blood red— the same red as the velvet seats circling the theater. Every rich element lay intact except that now, the euphoric curtain that had once shrouded the depths of this place was ripped open in traitorous tatters to reveal the loneliness, almost tangible. And, now my mysterious angel was unmasked and vengeful and I was not here by my own choice. There was no time for a choice to be given!

Certainty leaves me in why I exposed him for the whole audience to see during the finale _Don Juan_.

It was not to intentionally harm him. It couldn't have been.

I was mere bait on that stage, instructed to use his love for me as an irresistible ploy. Though it was not my idea, I was no less guilty of that raw betrayal.

But, I was a horrible ploy, for I played Aminta and I played her all too well. The minute I had heard Don Juan's voice, I knew it was not Piangi. It was unmistakable who the voice belonged to.

His rich timbre made me cease acting for he had his own effect on me, one that displaced any thought of trickery. I had forgotten all about my role in the plan, escaping to the place his voice brought me to, the tremendous sound of it freezing me in his arms.

After the number ended, he continued the song into a proposal to me as he held me in his gentle grasp - lulling and passionate, sounding as if he was willing every possible emotion into the soft, pure sound. I was so afraid of what I might respond with, the prickling sensation of an open stage invading on the moment, reminding me of where I was and what I was meant to do next. I could feel everyone's eyes like needles on my arms questioning what lay before them.

They knew it was no longer a performance.

My thoughts warred with each other, desire versus logic and song versus safety.

After my hand reacted on its own account, his eyes had pleaded with me.

That look in his eyes… he may have killed before, but I, in that moment, killed him. He had poured his heart out and all I achieved was to put him on show, humiliate him, and betray him.

Sleep did not come.

.

.

**1/14/15: This first chapter was revised in five minutes, so, if you are new to this story, there will still be some major changes to occur! Many apologies, but I hope you trust me and stick with it! Let me know what you think... red roses for all :)**

**Another note: I am considering drawing this story back in time and beginning it from when they are onstage... any thoughts on the matter? I have a few ideas for the DOM scene. **

**Yet another note: these little asides will be taken down once they are taken care of or are no longer significant.**

**Consider yourself to be having a conversation with... a ghost. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you all for your reviews and for taking the time to read this! A reviewer pointed out that Christine does not have much of a backbone yet. I agree and I did that on purpose for you all to see her grow as she learns more about herself as the chapters progress. She always had trouble controlling her own life, but I promise she will get a lot stronger. :) At this point Christine is still at the inn on the night of **_**Don Juan **_**surrounded by her thoughts. Keep in mind that those thoughts will still sound very confused and contradicting. Things will speed up! Narratives will turn into dialogue very soon when certain people… meet face to face.**

**REVISED JANUARY 2015**

***Curtain rises***

**.**

**.**

**Christine**

The cool air from the cracked open bay window teased me with its fleeting relief from the humidity in the damned room, making a path from the rectangular pane of night to my shoulders in a slow drift of winter, rustling my curls. The rest of my body was swaddled in cossetting covers along with the arm of my poor, burdened fiancé, and to yank the blanket off of myself as I so wished to would be to wake him astir and tirelessly alert for the invisible threat he seemed to think was perpetually upon us.

He could not wake yet. I was not ready, nor should he have to relive tonight as he surely would in consciousness by feeling the pain from the rope on his neck and arms, feeling the soreness of breathing from being plunged in water for such a fatal length of time, by seeing the look on my face that would surely... what would he see?

I brought both hands to my face and dug my palms into my eyes, trying to wipe off whatever traces of guilt still remained - guilt for the both of them.

My pulse quickened as his image tried to inch its way under my mind's fortressing wall - though it seemed to be made of brittle paper for the amount of protection it provided - and I pushed my fingers against my face with even more of my feeble strength.

It felt as if all of my energy were composed of a thin water that had left my system in tears, draining down my face from the center of my heart in a horrible, continuous path.

Now, I felt detached from my own body.

The need had grown desperate to step out onto the connected balcony or I would truly go _mad_. A small pitiful laugh came out in a silent breath into the hand that covered it at how simply and easily I had just questioned my sanity.

A drowsy groan sounded from Raoul's mouth and I turned my head, moving one of the splayed fingers down so that my left eye was no longer covered, then dropped that arm back down to my side.

He shifted and moved his arm towards him until it only rested lazily on my own, the cage gone, and his dreams claiming him into a deep sleep.

Looking at him hurt like a cut to the heart, yet I could not fathom why. We were together now, as was _best_.

I traced the sore redness around his neck with my eyes and, then, imagining the slate portcullis again behind him, let my dreading mind crawl over to the hands that had wrapped the rope there; like remembering a dream, I drew the memory up even further still to the eyes that buried painfully into my soul the entire time.

_Weren't we?_

A wave of foreignness had washed over me and Raoul; he had acted as if he had actually been able to _hear_ my contemplations, my unease, during the short trip to this inn. Though that was silly, how else was I to explain the rigidity of his persona?

Not, though, that I knew how a person was supposed to behave after such a situation. ...It just did not seem like this.

He had acted as if he had dragged me unwillingly into the brougham - first he was very tense, distant, and somehow angry. But, then sadness filled his movements, the way his head seemed to hang just a little lower as if he were disappointed by my reactions, searching my face while it faced the window like a critic examines a painting. I had noticed it from the side of my eye while Paris at nighttime passed by and felt it like a hidden dagger of accusation, but no energy had been left to face him or all that he wished to know.

Had I not been willing...

The numb tiredness trembled and wavered in my soul like an angry ocean, threatening to break and bring back every raging, averted thought into my head all at once… I had kept those locked away for months now, but -

_You never got rid of the key, _a little voice seemed to whisper with the thin, streaming wind.

The thoughts had never left.

I carefully and decidedly grasped Raoul's arm with my thumb and forefinger and moved it to his side gently, the urge to crawl out of my skin and hide returning full-fledged, then inched off my side of the bed painfully slow, all the while willing myself to be as silent as possible.

Willing the pillow that expanded with a crackle at the absence of my weight to be silent.

Willing the covers that slid against each other at my touch to be silent.

Willing my guilty heart's thudding to be silent.

Once free, I padded over the cold floor and to the window, slipped my silk robe over my shoulders with shaking fingers, and wedged my feet into slippers.

The wooden latch creaked at my touch and made my head to whirl back in hope that Raoul had not woken, my cheeks then heating red in shame as if somehow seeking time unaccompanied was a betrayal in and of itself.

I stared at his sleeping figure for a few moments and let out a small sigh, the cold turning my breath visible.

This was something... I just needed to be alone for now.

Once on the balcony, I wrapped my robe tighter around my bodice and breathed in the cold night air to calm my breathing, shutting the bay window slowly until it rested beside the metal notch for the lock to click into.

Facing the encircling night around me, I immediately envisioned what it must feel like for Erik, letting in this same fresh feel in the dead of twilight, the only time he would come up from the captivity he created for himself. He told me that once - that he created it himself along with man's ample acceptance - with a dry, sarcastic humor to his voice, but it did nothing to hide how he really felt on the matter.

The thought came quite arbitrarily, ambushing me, and I could almost feel him beside me on the balcony, hear his relieved breaths welcoming dark's cloaking hand like an embrace he knew he could count on receiving.

Though the bronze guardrail was bone cold, I kept my hands there, for the chill... made me feel anything at all.

I contemplated lowering my head down as well, to touch my forehead to the ice of the metal and burn out the image of Erik as a little boy.

_A mask, my first unfeeling scrap of clothing._

The rail knocked against my hips as I flinched at the thought, a knot in my throat winding tight and tears pooling into the corners of my eyes.

How could his mother - How could _anyone... _Just a child. The Phantom of the Opera. Just a little child, facing the cold-shouldering world alone.

I shut my eyes tight, trapping the tears, and pushed a fist against my mouth.

_Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light. Listen to the music of the night, Christine. _Comforting and lulling, I leaned into the memory, forced it to surface, and pictured exactly how his voice had sounded - a silken low timbre, demanding gently, the sound so entirely easy to just fall into and obey.

Listen to the music of the night. That was all I had to do... Clear my troubled thoughts, and see.

My brown eyes swept the beholding sight before me with this newfound ignorance, teeth clenched in effort to rid my mind of all but his voice, the tears sliding horizontally into my hair from the wind.

Do not think. Do _not. _

The tenseness eased as the echoing, far-away memory of his voice grew stronger and flooded my head, and I slipped my thoughts easily into submerging, detached waters.

The Parisian sky was starless and a golden moon defiantly fought against the ever-swallowing expanse of midnight black. Trees glowed in the foreground, reaching for me with their spindly, twining branches and the lights of Paris blazed as bright as the stars that should have been, orbs of crystalline blue and amber.

The scenery seemed alive, if that made sense; the rustling leaves, frosted by winter's finale were breathing; the whistling wind sung into the quiet air, wrapping around buildings with an icy caress; the moon stood guard like the keenest of eyes, glowing against the Seine in the far distance; and, the sounds of the city rippled like a jumping beat of drums.

And everywhere... I heard the most swelling and hidden of music.

A small smile upturned my lip, while a distant part of me knew that I could not run from my own mind.

But, I dropped my hand from my heart and clenched the rail tighter in berate to that voice, focusing on taking in the glory of the darkness with a child's wide eyes as if finally _seeing_ it for the first time.

Chills ran up my arms as the air crackled with a strange energy in its silence, beauty and song sprouting from the darkest and silent of shadows.

Then, suddenly, my father came to mind.

The pang that always followed when I thought of him was felt like a twist of the heart, but it was a good pang. I wanted to remember. It kept me from thinking of...

Nighttime was when magic and mystery danced, where possibilities leapt from the pages of my father's books. Papa only read to me and Raoul at night during the summers in the house by the sea for he argued that only then were our souls truly awake to give the tale a permanent home. It was when the border between reality and fantasy was paper thin, breakable at times. _The cloak of the dark can bend at a story's untamable will_, he would whisper by the glow of the moon, _distorting all of our perceptions_. Raoul and I would always shiver at his words, but lean closer nonetheless in great anticipation for the next legend of ghouls, or goblins, or ghosts.

Those were simple times, where my only worry was over the shells that scraped my pale knees on the shore, or if papa would finally let me help with supper.

_We can become whomever we wish_, he would read, _for nighttime never judges_.

My thoughts, mocking me for downplaying their strength, roamed swiftly back to the boy in the mask as I again tried to imagine his unthinkable childhood. It was impossible not to when his words from tonight had not yet left my skin.

_This face that earned a mother's fear and loathing. _

The tears that had not yet stopped their sideways stream into my hair began to change course and fall heavily down my cheeks, the weight of them defeating the wind itself.

It would be so much less complicated if I just despised him as any other would in my place! But I could not. _I did not_.

All of those times he had listened to my endless cries, hiding as my angel… I could not even recall one time that I inquired upon his own emotions.

He had not been tangible or reachable in my mind yet, but after he revealed himself... I chided myself inwardly for being so vain, my heart breaking with the pain over my role in his suffering. He was guilty of many sins… that much was blatantly obvious, but, I was a far cry from innocent.

I broke him.

_I _broke him this night and many previous.

It might very well have been I holding the Punjab's ropes in my unforgiving grasp.

The wind whistled past my ears, mimicking the sound of a thousand hushed words of blame.

I'd known Erik for countless years, and yet they were spent with him under the disguise of a celestial being. Never once had I considered the thought of him being a mortal man.

_Only hoped beyond all hope._

Attaining that sacred knowledge had burst open the doors to my imaginative thoughts the night he revealed himself at the mirror. And then... Words of what to fear, what is not natural to feel, what should not be— I became a marionette puppet with strings pulled taut each way by the hands of such controlling instruction that I began to find it easier to simply give in and let my lips fill with the voices of others.

Never had I taken the time to untangle the maze of emotions in constant boil, covered by a lid of gentle dissuasion and every moment of terror, for there has always been some sort of mind-bending occurrence looming around every corner I turned, keeping me perpetually on my toes.

I had begun to dread leaving my bed in the morning for fear of what might happen next, a life in sleep seeming better than one of such altering surprises.

Oh, but sleep never did keep the dreams at bay.

How can anyone expect to know themselves after all that had preceded this never-ending day?

I remembered all too vividly the fact that he has killed and know how indescribably horrid that is; I am far from blind. ...But, maybe I need to hear precisely why he committed the atrocities. The Erik I thought I knew, though highly intimidating, would not deliberately harm in such a casual manner.

What could possibly have changed?

A rose bush, the flowers the color of stark red painted by an evening sky, lined the bottom wall of the stone-walled inn, only now visible at the angle I was leaning at, and a hand clamped roughly around my heart.

The stems of the bush were frosted in glass, winter's weakening grasp trying to uphold its dominance over the feeble little rose; but, the buds with that vibrant red summer brings seemed completely unaware of the cold air surrounding each petal, for they were reaching up the grey wall without restraint.

Yes, an explanation would ease my tainted vision of him. I _needed _one.

It would certainly calm my restless mind, would it not?

My angel, the infamous Phantom of the Opera, and Erik were all one being in one hopeless tangle of lies and questions; I had no right to pretend that I knew all of him, and, I owed it to the both of us to find out what truly lies beneath his pretenses and hidden personalities.

_And what lies beneath mine. _

I _needed_ to see him one last time, to demand all of the answers he could possibly give. For the sake of my health and heart, the mystery and endless hysteria needed to end.

With burgeoning determination, forming like the safeguard I would surely use against the fear of returning to the opera house, a drowning weight I could never quite place lifted off of my shoulders like smoke dissipating into nothingness.

I stared intently at the roses in the dark at the simplicity of the solution.

This curtain would finally fall.

...

I was fairly certain that I did not breathe once or let my paranoid eyes leave Raoul's figure while slipping out of the room until I had lost sight of him and breached the threshold of the inn's wooden doors.

My swift escape had felt scandalous and that defiant action alone had left me with an inexplicable exhilaration.

A small smile, unaware of the risk I was taking, or simply not caring, tilted my lips as I fastened my cloak within the shadows of the streets.

Being a part of the awe-filled sight that I only moments ago had immersed myself in on the balcony made me feel like I had leapt from a page in a book, playing a crucial role in the opera of the darkness.

My crazed curls trailed behind me like dark fire in the wind that roared past my ears while I traversed the cobbled streets at my quick pace, slinking beneath awnings, trailing my hands against varying buildings, and completely heedless of lurking perverse men looking for company or the questioning glares from their female prey.

They would never learn whom that strange girl was, running from nothing.

My thoughts were narrowed to the slim line of the direct route to the Opera Populaire, my hopes growing in becoming that careless girl before every unanswered question of unrelenting darkness had withered her away.

Rationale knew it impossible, but, sometimes, blind hope was better than none at all.

...

After what seemed both an eternity and no time at all, I reached the familiar breathtaking building— a baroque-styled, imposing fortress of the arts.

And my adrenaline waned.

I stood stricken for a while, calming my breathing, wary of taking any step closer.

The idea had seemed so easy back at the inn, an answered prayer that would save my soul. Now face-to-face with the rising marble, formidable gargoyles and their warning faces permanent in the stone...

The raging fire had been defeated, the only evidence the last wisps of smoke rising to join the clouds and, despite my hesitation, every thread of the place pulled at me like a determined current.

Raoul seemed so distant, so unreachable; that thought alone left me with a spreading exposed feeling, but it was no match for the pull— the indescribably thrill each stone exuberated, beckoning me with a chorus of winding voices.

I drew my cloak tighter around shivering form, realizing with a frightened start that I had already begun moving.

A part of me ached to feel the envelopment of the walls once more, feel the familiarity...

_See the man whose kiss I still felt on my lips like a torturing imprint of a memory._

Another part, only a smothered cry amongst the trapping urges, wished to create as much distance between myself and all that would soon lay inevitably before me.

I walked through the storm-gate entrance with steady feet and a nervous, thudding heart.

...

Stooping under the low arch of the entryway and shutting the iron grate with a piercing creak behind me, an unnerving pitch dark and the sound of dripping water welcomed my presence.

Thankfully, I had foreseen to bring a candle and matches, for I knew how impossible navigating was without them.

And frightening.

Striking the match against the wall, I lit the wick and watched my shadow come alive on the towering stone as a golden glow rose and outlined my looming form.

My thoughts turned calmer at the change in surroundings, their muddled grimness easing to be replaced by growing clarity.

I had ventured here for a reason and that reason would be seen out regardless of any reserve or fear.

No chains bound me.

My own account and wish had led me here.

With my flickering light, I could at least _attempt_ to watch out for Erik's precariously laid traps. And, so—

That was what I did.

All was still as I made my snaking trek, the only sound the light tap of my slippers echoing against the walls.

Had the mobs given up?

_Was this silence the result of their sick triumph? _

My eyes widened and pace quickened at the thought.

I heard them before I left with Raoul, but... This was Erik! They could not have... he would not have...

The thought remained unfinished and I swallowed the dread, held onto the hope that extended only to the edge of my candle's glow, and walked swiftly down the never-ending stone path.

...

Weary after many wrong turns, I reached the docked gondola and practically tumbled into the water in my haste to board. The murky surface sprayed onto my arms and I sat statue-still until the boat ceased its troubled rocking from my unceremonious boarding.

My skin prickled with both cold fear and accustomed excitement as I neared his home, my emotions as jumbled as ever. The memory of only hours ago hatched slowly in the back of my mind, and again I was filled with wariness.

My plan had only consisted of coming back here; there was no detailed script on how to obtain any answers, on how to handle seeing Erik, or even entering his home.

_Now what?_

My fingers gripped the pole and tried to stop the boat in a mindless whirl of panic, but it was too late for halting; I could not return or run away from his anger and sadness like a child.

_Past the point of no return. _

I laughed without mirth until my breath caught.

The front of the gondola broke into a glowing light, guiding me with a ghostly precision into the shore of his lake and leading me into the heart of my fate.

I quickly and silently docked the boat, questions swimming in my head while my nervous fingers fumbled gracelessly over the rope.

Looking around, wonder turned to light-headed panic at the sight lain before me. Shards of glass dangerously lay on the rug in front of his broken mirrors and his mahogany violin was smashed into angular pieces; dripping candles were strewn everywhere, their smoke clouding the room in its potent scent and fogged haze; beautiful tapestries were ripped; his music was abandoned, scattered roughly across the floor like autumn's brittle leaves. Everything was ravaged.

And it was too noiseless.

My previous fear came to life and I ran, searching for him, throwing all caution away with each step.

At that moment I did not care what sins he had committed or what punishment was warranted to the actions. I could only keep my eyes wide, dreading the sight I would surely find, but unable to look away from each corner and inch of the floor in a vigorous search— Erik laying bloodied with ocean eyes as lifeless as marbles, bones broken, having died alone as the men laughed and whistled, walking away from their victory; he would have stared at the stone ceiling alone, watched the world fade away alone.

Tears flew as I shook my head roughly. He could have escaped. He was smarter than them. This did not mean that he was dead!

Paying no regard to his hazardous floor, I foolishly let a piece of glass slice through my slipper, causing me to stagger.

But, I barely felt it.

The mad search ceased abruptly when my dress's garniture rubbed against, and pulled back slightly, a curtain from one of his mirrors and displayed an entryway.

I stepped through the empty frame with a look of wonderment, my previous fear pausing in this confused turn of events.

No one would be able to come across this entrance unless they held previous knowledge of its whereabouts.

_Of course._

The opening led to a hidden room, plain and barren, but, I noticed nothing else, for my gaze was glued helplessly to a tall figure slumped over on a small wooden bench.

His broad back was to me and his stature was slouched, supporting himself by grasping his knees with visibly tense hands.

My voice was lost.

His brown, umber hair reached the cream collar of the billowy linen shirt he still wore from _Don Juan_, half-tucked into the ebony cummerbund atop his dark brown trousers.

His breaths echoed in the stone room, shoulders rising and falling in step, but, my relief of his safety drifted away as methodically as the rhythm of his breathing as I realized how unnatural this was.

The cunning Opera Ghost would be on an intruder the moment he heard the boat!

And then there was his home in tatters—

Warily letting the curtain drop to seal me in, I walked inside with a dread-filled, silent step, the only light now coming from one flickering candelabra.

"Erik…" I called out softly.

His head snapped up but did not turn to my voice. He shook it before again letting it fall.

"Stop tormenting me," he rasped, the air shivering at his voice, gooseflesh raising on my arms.

"She is gone - all of it is gone. _Gone_, though I mustn't be dead for I'd never hear that voice in _hell_." I could see him dig his fingers into his knees as he spit out the last words.

Tears began to fall silently down my face; he thought I was only a figment of his imagination summoned to agonize him.

I impulsively started to walk towards him when he spoke suddenly in a deep and rich voice, gaining composure in alertness to the sudden sound of my careless, echoed step. He seemed to now _know_ he wasn't alone, and he went on as if his previous words had not even left his lips.

"My most esteemed audience must finally have made it here to congratulate me on my debut. I, myself, had truly found the finale quite …_ablaze,_ if you will." He chuckled sardonically, switching on his phantom pretense as easily as changing character in a theater performance. The contrast was so abrupt, his agonized words turning so quickly into those introducing a threat that my mind whirled.

I looked behind myself in utter confusion of his address, wondering if somehow he had actually heard a different presence. Turning back to him, I noticed an empty, decorated bottle discarded on the floor by his feet, drained of its alcohol content.

My body stiffened in fear, and I felt my back brush against the stone of the wall. His temper while inebriated... he would not hurt me. He would _not._

Erik slowly turned his body on the bench to greet whatever company he perceived to be present with intimidation, his hair shielding his view until we were completely face-to-face.

The transformation of his calculating, cold eyes to that of complete incredulity at the sight of me was so apparent in its sudden vulnerability that it robbed me of breath.

Caught frozen in his stare, my eyes traveled the full sight of him from his still disheveled hair, his porcelain white mask that he now donned, to his partially bare chest covered in… _blood_! I gasped in horror at what my eyes revealed.

The front of his shirt was splattered with the deep red, his bare skin sliced, and a few small pieces of glass still protruded from his flesh.

I ran to him immediately with a mangled cry, carefully grasping his shoulders, worried about hurting him even more, but his eyes only followed me lazily in an entranced daze.

"Erik, what _happened? Who did this to you_?_" _I said in a breath, my eyebrows knitted together so tightly that it hurt.

Had they already gotten to him?

Not allowing a reply, I demanded he tell me where he kept medical supplies.

"Christine..." he swallowed, eyes half-closed and searching as if to see an image that was not there, "I don't need help." His words came out mumbled, confused, and very quiet, eyes still staring in that disbelieving manner.

**Erik**

**.**

**.**

Torment, agony, and more damnable torment.

My mind was my own prison, punishing me for each and every appalling action I had ever committed.

I stared at the image of her in front of me, confused as to how I could feel its touch. It was not the abstract prickle of air felt during most dreams, for I could feel the pressure of each of her fingers on my shoulders.

The apparitional Christine wore a green cloak over a nightdress, her curls wild and cascading.

_An avenging angel._

Skin so pale, devoid of imperfections… a china doll, only breakable from my own manipulating actions.

Her wide eyes pleaded with me, slow tears streaking down rosy cheeks; she was trying to say something. I watched her full lips move to form words, though I only grasped the last few asking for medical provisions.

My response was unintelligent, a muddled venture to try and uphold a sense of dignity with a dismissal of need for help, though why I needed to dignify myself to a self-induced vision, I was not entirely sure.

_What was in the cognac...?_

The matter grew less and less important as white blinded my vision, causing the decor of the rug I was now focused on to dance with spots of black until suddenly the images grew quite large and blackness dragged me into its merciless depths.

I vaguely remembered the sound of rapid footsteps and a soft yell, my body unable to move on its own. Then, drifting along with a teetering consciousness, my next recollection was letting her - or rather my own legs, drunkenly dreaming - support me as she led me away from the room, her shoulder underneath my own and her other arm tight around my waist as I stumbled along held by the sheer thread that was her slim figure.

There was scant time to question my sanity before darkness again claimed me.

Finally awake and somewhat alert, my primary notice was the pain. Had that much glass embedded itself into my flesh? Every piece was felt cutting me again and again like mirrored knives of fire, the memory ripping my skin just as the shards had.

Each breath I took shifted them, sending a new shock of pain up my spine that turned into a cold sweat at my nape, and then dripped back down in endless clockwork.

The shock of light scathed my eyes as I opened them, the brightness of each flame seemingly magnified tenfold.

Coming into full focus, I noticed sullenly, but hopelessly overjoyed, that my painful dream had not yet ended. Christine still remained, one knee tucked beneath herself as she sat on the bed.

The _bed..._

How did I reach the bed?

At least she felt real, humming while she wrung the cloth full of blood, staring intently at the discolored water, before turning to minister to my wounds.

I tilted my head and held my breath, waiting silently for her to disappear into the air.

She spoke though, leaning forward and placing the cloth onto the exposed part of my abdomen, too focused on her task to notice my waking.

My pulse began to race, her cold fingers pushing aside the fabric of my bloodied shirt, touching innocently where I had never been touched before.

"When you heal, _I _will be the end of you - you selfish man, foiling my plot with this disruption!" She spoke with her eyebrows furrowed and her face in a scowl, though her voice, full of a gentle worry, betrayed her words. She paused and stared at the wound she was cleaning, wincing.

She was undeniably no figment of my mind.

I willed my hands to stay at my sides as she cleaned off my skin, her long curtain of curls dancing across my ribs.

The pain was no longer noticed.

How could I possibly be so foolish? If she were, indeed, merely a dream, I would not feel her so vividly. She smelled of night and roses, felt both warm and cold...

Nor, would a hallucinated Christine speak so easily in her infuriating boldness.

My head pounded at the absurdity of her presence, how it defied every scrap of logic.

But— here she was.

No illusion or dream could capture her very being, her every detail, the flush on her cheeks, the slenderness of her fingers. Not even I could recreate the perfect shape of her now scowled mouth, or the curve of her neck.

Christine stopped moving the cloth and stared at the canvas she was working with, her eyes childlike and curious.

She traced a long scar on my upper-abdomen that reached up between my chest with a wary finger, a tear splashing onto one of the open wounds, and I jerked at her touch.

_It was more torture than the wounds could ever be._

Startled, she met my eyes through lowered lids, a painful mix of reactions mirrored beneath framing lashes.

No, _this was very real, indeed._

"Christine?"

.

.

.

**And... they finally meet. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Very sorry for the wait! Life gets in the way of writing and stories this emotionally heavy just simply cannot be rushed. From now on, I will update every other week unless I finish a chapter sooner. In that case, I would post it as soon as it is done! For now, here is chapter three.**

**Christine**

.

.

I wrung out the putrid, blood-soaked cloth once more, having cleaned off his wounds to the best of my abilities. I looked at his now sleeping form, his face so innocently vulnerable in his dreams. There was no scowl or straight set to his jaw; all of his features had softened.

This look... I had never seen it before. It was as if every care or worry had slipped from his mind giving him the appearance of gentle contentment. My heart twisted at the thought of him waking, every tightly wound nerve of him back in place under the weight of the world. Why did I pity him so- this man that was capable of wretched deeds?

Erik's mouth was slightly parted in the slackness of sleep and his arm hung open across the expanse of the velvet mattress. It felt strange watching him, as if I were invading on something rare; something I was not meant to witness.

It was not the stature of a monstrous killer, but of a man. Oh, what cruel things I had spit at him tonight, each word aimed like a rusted dagger at his betrayal. I had such plans for us and yet with each murderous outburst those hopes grew more and more distant until they had left me with a complete bitterness. I snuck a look at him yet again, wanting to remember him as this gentle man, and an ache filled my chest.

How foreign it was to see him in such a simply intimate way, like a future shadow of our lives together had things been different; I, his loving wife, watching him sleep on the brink of a new morning. We would make harmonious music together that day, tell each other tales of fantasy by only light of one flickering candle, and maybe even _I_ would help devise the next hoax on dear Carlotta. Never once would we even give air to the thought of how far below the ground we resided. I could see it so clearly I almost jumped!

The normalcy surprised me, being that I was engaged to Raoul. I shooed away the thought as quickly as it came, though I knew it would linger. Everything lingered.

As the remnants of my musing faded, I was greeted with the throbbing pain of my left foot from the mirror's glass. I had been far too distracted to even notice with all of my worriedness over Erik's injuries. I carefully peeled off my thin boot to examine the damage. It was not deep, just a long scrape that cut through my stocking leaving an angry red smile on the heel. I cleaned it off and wrapped it with a cloth bandage so that it would not become infected. He tossed in his sleep, further tangling himself in the covers.

What restless dreams lay in his maze of a mind?

Slipping my boot back on, only wincing a little at the jolt of pain, I decided to take the liberty to look around. Curiosity bit at my back and urged me to peak before he would wake. _When he would wake… _What a deep hole I had dug myself into what with the pending moment growing closer when I'd most definitely be interrogated by those fearful ocean eyes. For now, though, he was asleep and I must not waste time dawdling on the fact!

...

Under my inquisitive scrutiny, I decided his underground haven was crafted quite conveniently; there was a small bathing chamber just down the steps from the bedroom, and even a kitchen! Well… it had the potential to be a kitchen. Clutter lay strewn over every inch of space, bowls of fruit the only indication of the table's purpose. Beautiful cabinetry, deep mahogany with cream and gold carvings, held loaves of bread and a variety of cheeses and fruit. _The natural chill of the air must keep the food from spoiling._ The sharp aroma was a song to my growling stomach, almost giving me the notion to sneak a piece of the delicious golden bread. _It could wait_, I chided myself. Raoul can have an exquisite meal at the snap of his fingers whereas Erik must have spent hours baking the bread. An abandoned cookbook dusted with flour threatened to fall off the edge of the table, backing my logic further. It was a curious thought to picture him, a man so complex and darkly beguiling, completing an action so trivial and unassuming. _No, it would not be right_.

I sat on a cushioned chair, playing nervously with the edge of an ivory lace tablecloth. _What if Raoul wakes and in my absence believes that Erik took me? _I cannot have him hunted down like a monster for nothing other than my own whim. He was already preyed on enough tonight. _Did those savages cut him and ransack his home? _I scrunched my nose in frustration. Why must my life be so confusing? I knew I must get back to the inn soon, but not before I spoke with Erik and eased my questioning mind… for the sake of everyone. I will never be a good, deserving wife to Raoul if I remain this distant, constantly trapped by my own thoughts and regret. I had lived those three months after _Il Muto_ in a trance, meeting glances with blank stares, forcing smiles to ward off further questioning. I can't go back to that dangerous way of life, barely living. The fringes of that blankness I had practiced so recently were already beginning to beckon me again, welcoming with their promise of cures to my troubles. Distance from others, I had thought, would stop it all for I felt like the vortex to a storm, attracting all kinds of unfortunate events and ruining everything I touched. Every_one_ I touched. No one understood. No one _could._

Raoul had barely pulled me out of that grasp of perilous indifference.

...

I wandered through the open layout of rooms to distract myself, taking in all of the worldly details as I waited for Erik to wake. His home bled with a rich ornateness and wondering mystery regardless of the tattered beating it had endured. Persian throne-styled chairs lay under the golden glow of candelabras while bookcases as tall as the stone ceiling held every fantasy imaginable to my eyes. Leather covers held all of his composed songs and unfinished operas. A true genius, there were so many layers to this man… both fearful and incredible. I thumbed out one mangle of papers, curious of what notes he had scribbled for his works. I read the first few lines, already strangely captured by the raw emotion, while my hair created a curtain around my downturned head.

_Notes on Frederick:_

_Loathes Phillip's character after the ballroom incident. Refer to Scene 2 line 132: _

"_A mere visage of nobility, monsieur, your green eyes are a field of lies leaving your prey trapped in its unwavering expanse!"_

The scripted notes scrawled on, messily construed all over the page speaking of dynamic characters. There was a gypsy named Elise, who captured the attention of Frederick when she stole a beloved ring from Phillip. I sat on a nearby bench, intrigued by the story of misconception and falsity. If only I could find the drafted script amidst all of the clutter! I did find part of Elise's aria, humming its trailing melody softly as I walked on through the vicinity of the rooms. I did not dare enter his own private halls for I would surely never find my way back leaving Erik to wake and think I truly was nothing but a dream!

I reached a wooden desk covered in scattered envelopes and fanciful parchment. I saw the blood red wax that he melted to mold and the brass stamp of death's head to seal it. This must be where the Opera Ghost wrote his threats and demands. I ran my fingertips along the stationary in wonderment. My fingers caught an unsealed envelope with a folded piece of parchment half-enclosed. The paper ran heavy with ebony ink. My finger had merely slipped between the envelope and letter to snatch it out and read it before I stopped myself. I had no business reading his private notes, especially while he was asleep and unaware. I had invaded enough of Erik's personal space what with searching his home and reading his operas. I knew those must be filled with underlying meanings. His works always were.

I had just walked from the desk when a corner of the room caught my eye. Rich oil paints and other mediums lay on shelves, their contents painted on lengths of cloth hanging along the walls in beautiful portraits and landscapes. I stared in awe at the portraits in particular, letting out a gasp. Most were painted in the likeness of me. When I looked at myself in a mirror I saw a girl with a pale complexion, skinny frame, with huge brown eyes and an unruly mane of hair. I was quite plain and ordinary, not foul to look at, yet nothing astonishing. But the way Erik painted me… my cheeks were a golden flush and my mouth a splash of rose. My eyes were brown yet were alive with depth and emotion. Love, loneliness, longing… Everything about the portrait was beautiful and it took my very breath away. _Was this how he saw me? _

A fit of coughing snapped my head to the bedchamber; he was awake. I smoothed the front of my nightdress in a nervous manner, working up the courage to approach him. Courtesy striking me, I grabbed a pitcher of water that I had seen on a shelf earlier and poured a glass. Most of it ended up on the ground from my unsteady hand. I walked over and up the steps to the curtain of the bed and pulled it aside, unsure of every stumbling move.

This was my chance.

He was sitting up and wincing; some wounds had reopened from the force of the coughing. Erik's eyes found mine and he stared, gradually dropping his gaze to the chalice in my hand. He opened and closed his mouth a few times while shaking his head as if dispensing of all trials at words. Guilt seeped in as my presence's effect visibly rose to the surface in a hopeless display. I had given no regard to what he would think of me coming here, especially after everything that happened tonight. What a child I still was, only worried about fulfilling my own selfish desires. He was not a means I could use to ensure an untroubled future. Yes, I was hurt by him… but haven't _I _put him through enough as well? Uncertain of how to begin, I thrust the glass forward.

"I heard you coughing and… and well, I thought you might like some water." I leaned closer until I was within reach. He tilted his head slightly and his hand jerked hesitantly before fully reaching out and gingerly grabbing the glass, blatantly keeping his hand from contact with mine in the manner.

"Thank you," he nodded curtly. I watched him as he brought the glass to his lips, wringing my hands behind my back. His eyes never left mine. After time lazily stretched, he spoke again.

"Why are you here, Christine?" he softly questioned, his eyes incredulous and drowsy from just having left his disoriented slumber. I saw hope flash across them briefly, followed by hurt, and then finally that well of sorrow sinking in its perpetuity and hopelessness. I searched for words… words to calm and explain, words to accuse and injure, any words at all.

I cleared my throat to give strength to my lost voice and stood up straighter. "I came for answers," I announced, annoyed at the lack of defiance in my tone.

"To what questions, may I ask?" Even in his most vulnerable state, the low timbre of his voice gave my attempt at intimidation a near laughable quality.

"What questions?" I gave a quick breath of disbelief. "It would take weeks for you to rid me of every inquiry that bashed through my head since that day you revealed yourself a man."

"Christine…" he uttered out my name as if it pained him to do so.

"I must know," I whispered pleadingly, sitting slightly on the edge of the bed in anticipation. He stiffened at my bold action before looking away in deep thought. He then brought himself up to a higher sitting position, wincing from the pain, as he met my gaze with eyes that saw into my soul.

**Erik**

**.**

**.**

Any lingering thoughts of this encounter being a dream or hallucination from the alcohol were diminished instantly. A dream of her would mock me in its loveliness, leaving me empty when it vanished. All she wanted to hear and uncover… that would be a nightmare that I'd give anything to be woken from. How could I rip my soul open further to the pathetic sadness behind every action, reliving every painful experience? The thought sickened me and I almost turned her down. I had opened my mouth to spit out the words and send her away when the look in her eyes stopped me cold. They held such pain and confusion, huge and bright from forming tears. _I _caused all of this, led by my blackened heart. My chest ached, threatening to rip open from every tormenting sensation her presence provoked.

I had put her through hell during my attempts to win her love, giving into murderous hate and manipulation. I could not deny her any request. She came _here _of all places... here, where the hysterical finale to our story took place only hours ago. I owed her everything I could give. Under her searing gaze and my relentless guilt I succumbed to her wishes. I had nothing left to lose.

I slowly nodded my head towards her hopeful one, "Then you shall know."

**.**

**.**

**I know, I know you want to hear the interrogation session! This chapter is just to tide you over until I add the next one which will be Erik and Christine's tell all delving of secrets. Also, soon you will hear the story from a lot more of Erik's POV. That will hopefully be updated sooner than next Monday because it should've been at the end of this chapter. Just be on the lookout! See you next time… *slams on organ***


	4. Chapter 4

**Tension, awkwardness, anger, confusion, self-hatred, warring emotions— all accounted for. **

**Christine**

**.**

**.**

I was worried of what answers I may come across… of what lies I might uncover. Would they give me further reason to despise him? Or might his words add to my uneasiness over who I left with? That thought… it scared me the most. The unknown made me very afraid, and yet, I knew I must do this. To leave now would disorient me hopelessly further, all of the haunting secrets still there to torment my dreams each and every relentless night.

But, beneath all of the doubt… I felt very _eager_. I might finally reach the winding labyrinths exit; the guiding light at the end of this endless tunnel!

Smoothing my nightdress, I looked at Erik, my eyes drawing to his wounds again. The little pieces of glass I had extracted, they were reflective… the same surface as the glass I cut my foot on by the shattered mirrors. I quickly made the connection, though any explanation seemed absurd. That would be very creatively tortuous for the mob to have broken the mirrors and then raked the pieces across his chest. No, that was a foolish idea. I began, unsure of how to word it.

"Did you cause that?" I pointed to his chest as he let out a long-held deep breath, biding his time as he was uneager to answer. I knew he would be difficult upon coming here, as would I in his place; but, I, myself, could be persistent. After a moment, he responded, with eyes full of a bitter mirth.

"Yes… this was all my doing." He made a sweeping gesture with his right arm to the ruins surrounding him with mock grandeur before dropping it roughly back on the bed. Following his movement, I noticed one of his hands held a faint pink burn.

"But how—"

"I shattered the mirrors after you left," he answered calmly and simply, a threatening singsong quality to his voice. "The shards of glass must have cut me during my rampage. You must forgive me, for I could no longer bare to look at the monstrous beasts in its reflections." He spit out the last words, pushing himself up further with great effort until he was only a foot from my face, close enough for me to feel a faint brush of his warm breath on my ice cold cheek.

I shivered, watching his imposing guise fall away like a stripped veneer as he looked at me closely, his smirk vanishing as his lips parted. His rage-filled eyes softened as they roamed my face, meticulous in a manner as if tracing each feature to memory. His own mask did not lessen any effect of his expression. A foreign feeling drifted through me, _warm _in a way. Time ceased as my thoughts faded, suddenly lacking importance. _Why did he always have this effect on me? How could he still? _

It was there nonetheless, challenging every thought down the course of its shuddering path.

After no time at all he drew his visible eyebrow to the center, softly clearing his throat as he leaned away with eyes of a colder hue. In a weak voice I responded to his rage while pushing him back on the bed gently. It was clear to me that he was not well enough to stand, the last drops of alcohol the only relief numbing the pain.

"I am not afraid of you, Erik."

He laughed in a low tone, "does not my _distorted soul _frighten you, Christine?" I winced and bit my lip, fearful of meeting his stare. _No_, he could not accuse me right now.

"Do not dare turn this on me. Leave me time to explain later, but do not blame me now for all I've said. You have _killed _Erik."

"I'm aware," he stated through gritted teeth.

"Then may I please continue?" He gestured with his hand for me to proceed.

"Why did you pretend to be my Angel of Music for so long? If you had just told me you were a man—"

"What? What would have possibly changed?"

"I just want to know why you kept it from me." I met his gaze levelly, waiting for an answer. I refused to be distracted again.

**Erik**

**.**

**.**

I recognized what I would be getting into when I agreed to delve all of my secrets. Moreover, this did not mean that I would be any more willing. I stared at the pale angel, bent on unleashing hell. It took effort, but I slid my legs over the side of the bed, grunting at the pain from twisting my flesh in the movement. It was most difficult to regain any dignity after a night like this while lying on a bed like a child. The coddling was unfamiliar and unnerved me. Christine followed my movement looking like she was ready to burst from my ignorance of her unspoken order. I was fine. She would never see the scars from my childhood… _Come children, come and see the Devil's Child._ I swallowed the memory down like bile, wanting to keep that story buried.

"I knew your father, Gustave Daae, before you came to live here. When he knew of his progressing illness, he sought me out. Oh, he had heard of the Opera Ghost just like the others. It was Antoinette, Madame Giry to you, who informed him of my true identity."

Christine was drinking in every word, just as she did when I would tell her stories as a younger girl… as her Angel. She would listen calmly, though always with that mystified look that only sheer will, holding her tongue from every question she had wished to interject with, could refrain. How long ago that seemed.

"Your father was worried for your safety at this opera house. Though under Antoinette's care, the _diverse_ populace that lived here was what troubled him. You were such a curious girl, naïve and trusting. He knew of my secret passageways that gave me complete access to the Populaire while staying completely hidden. I was the eyes and ears of this place. He asked me to watch over and protect you once he could no longer."

"That still does not explain why you lied about your identity." Christine crinkled her nose in confusion, visibly trying to understand.

"I never intended to keep up with the ruse for so long. I remember the moment, a few days after he passed… you were kneeling in the chapel, singing and crying out to your father with great torment as you lit a candle in remembrance. It struck me deeply for I am no stranger to loneliness."

Christine reached her hand out towards me on impulse, her fingertips grazing the shirt's fabric over my forearm. She dropped her arm immediately, attempting to tuck her hair behind her ear while she looked away in confusion. I was grateful that she had turned from me for the chill that shocked me from her fleeting touch would surely have been written on my face.

I was being a fool; she was only pitying me. I continued on with my account, the returning feeling of emptiness settling in my core. This mocking night of intertwined pain and pleasure, this carousel of emotions, would haunt me like an inescapable shadow.

"You asked him to send you an Angel of Music, like from the stories he told you as a child. Your voice… I had never heard such pureness before in my life and I knew I must foster it, must help it grow into its full potential. That was when the idea first came to me. I could protect you as your father asked while calming you with the notion that your Angel of Music had finally come to guide you and teach you. I would've done anything to stop your tears. It worked." She opened her mouth to interject, but I was faster. "I never meant for it to continue on as long as it did. There were many times I was going to tell you."

"Why didn't you? Why did you wait so long?"

"Every time I wished to, knowing it was not right to deceive you, I would change my mind at the last moment. I saw how attached you were growing to me, unaware that you were suffering socially from all of the time you spent hidden away in the chapel or dressing room as opposed to being with girls of your own age. Meg's friendship banished that guilt. It was my own selfish desire of your continued companionship along with the fear over what you might do if you discovered my secret that fueled me to keep up the deception. I believed I was only hurting myself, knowing very well that you only wanted me near because of a made-up pretense. I did not care for I would've rather had you with me based on lies than lose you altogether."

I was pacing in front of her staring at the floor, knowing I would cease telling the pathetic explanation if I saw her. The irony of my actions dawned on me and I laughed bitterly, stopping suddenly with a scuff of my boot on stone.

"And I lost you anyways. All of my actions and manipulations to hide my face and win your love drove you away from me… not for fear of my deformity, but of my soul!" My breathing came heavy and I grabbed her shoulders with a sudden futility I could not escape, looking to grasp onto anything as the ground beneath my feet began to crumble.

"God, I drove you away. _I, _the _man. Why are you here,_" I cried out, my voice cracking. "How could you _stand _to be _here _after all I've done_?_"

**Christine**

**.**

**.**

Hot tears spilled down my cheeks. His stare bore me down, so desperate and commanding for an answer, every fleck of green and grey startlingly detailed. I was supporting most of his weight by grabbing his waist to stand, my fingers digging into the fabric of his trousers, just as I had onstage when we had met on the bridge as Aminta and Don Juan... My breathing quickened and I froze, the tears in my eyes feeling like ice from the cool air of his breath. Erik loosened his grip on my shoulders and shook his head softly. Those blue eyes went quickly to his hands, looking for a moment before letting them drop, his fingers trailing with their own impulse down my arms until roughly falling to his side.

"Why, Christine?"

I lowered my head as the tears trailed down my neck, absorbing into the collar of my dress, rubbing my arms where chills had formed.

"I don't know," I pleaded to the ground, every word lost on my tongue. "I… I wanted to put all of this to rest. I wanted to settle everything, learn, decide, feel… I don't know! I do not know what you want to hear and I do not know what I wish to reveal. I feel so lost, Erik. No weight was lifted off of my shoulders leaving here and I needed to find out why." I gasped at what I said, not knowing where my nonsensical sputtering came from. I had lost it. It felt like I was falling and I grabbed the bedpost tightly. Erik looked at me as if the sight of me pained him. The expression quickly dissolved into worriedness over my clear exhaustion and then into a shy tentativeness as his eyes moved to the bed.

"You should lie down, Christine. You will become ill without rest. Soon… soon I will see to it that you return home safely. You don't want to worry the Vicomte." The word "Vicomte" came out of his mouth like an impulsive sneer. "How _did _you arrive here, anyways?"

"I came alone. I'm not going back yet and I am not sleeping," I proclaimed like a child, betrayed by my drowsy lids. "I need to know more." He looked at me with withering patience.

"At least sit down; you should not have to stand there like a statue." He gestured to the bed with a short nod. I agreed after a few moments, the soft velvet tempting my tired bones. I sat back on the bed, sliding the covers up to my hip with my head resting on the bronze board behind my back. The sheets were still warm from his previous presence.

The enveloping softness of the bed and the dim lighting of the room served as an exact replica of the first night I woke here, throwing me into a fatigue-filled haze. Maybe no time had passed between the night of _Hannibal_ and now, all of the proceeding events a simple nightmare I had merely dreamt.

But, fate was not kind. I could wish a lie as sweet as that to be real with every ounce of my being and I would still be left so poorly disappointed.

Lives were still cut short, people were still betrayed.

Erik stood at the side of the bed looking quite uncomfortable. How was he supposed to act in this most unusual circumstance? My visit was uncalled for, an idea not even I had predicted. Oh, I had felt such loathing for him tonight as he held Raoul's life in his hands. He couldn't _see _me. He was almost blind to what he was doing, the nail he was driving between us. I never imagined I would come back here... and, yet, here I was, sitting right on his bed.

Every one of my decisions was impulsive, affecting everyone... Raoul, Erik, myself. How I wished my father were still alive; he would know what to do!

A cloud of tension, tangible and ever-spreading, hung in the room and I searched for ways to ease it. Coming up short, I simply motioned for him to sit in a quite awkward manner, my hand patting the part of the mattress close by my feet. I was answered with an utterly confused twist of his features.

"Well, I cannot sit here on _your _bed while you stand there. I believe we're past formalities, don't you agree?" Erik's eyes widened a fraction, the twin waters darkening, but he eventually sat on the edge, resting his arms on his legs in a rigid stature. After a moment of heavy silence, he spoke.

"_I believe _that it may now be my turn to ask questions."

**Erik**

**.**

**.**

Christine looked at me for a moment with an expression I could not decipher. Was it dread? She opened her pink lips to speak before closing them abruptly and nodding, her brown curls bouncing. It was throwing to see her so naturally on the bed… _her_ bed, though hell would freeze before she knew that.

_Though didn't it already? _Surely, hell wouldn't have even dreamed of her presence.

I already resided in its depths, though it must not have froze... it couldn't have. The untouchable warmth was back, that always shocking, tingling of nerves that teased me in her presence... in its normalcy. The bed rose back into my view, its blind hopefulness grasping at her every curve.

I had built that bed for her before I ruined it all, madly preparing in hopes that one day she would finally see the good in me.

Ah, it was there... only buried by every damning sin.

Her finger, bare without the ring, and her constant wary expression wiped away any shadows of the warm future I used to dream of. I got up quickly and pulled an armchair out from the corner, swinging it to face her before sitting down again. The question practically burst off of my tongue.

"The morning after Hannibal… why did you take off my mask?"

"I… well, I was curious. All of the tales I had heard about what was underneath- well, I knew they must be exaggerated but I still wanted to see you—all of you. After that dreaming night of music that bore your soul to me I did not want something as trivial as that mask to conceal you further." She was staring into the distance, a flash of a lazy smile momentarily lighting up her shadowed features from the memory.

_She had found beauty in my soul that awaited night; I had seen its wonderful glow in her eyes, filling me with a welcome foreignness._

"You speak so nonchalantly, as if the mask weren't purposefully hiding a hideous deformity. Do you not remember retreating back in that bone chilling fear?" Her eyes, those wide brown eyes as she held my mask in her quivering hand…

_But, that false beauty had not been enough to dilute the sight of my repulsive face, no matter how hard I wished it._

"I was not frightened by your face! I was afraid of you," Christine yelled in counter, grabbing at the sheets with her slim hands in frustration. I froze at her intensity. "You screamed at me with rage, pushing me down as you covered your face and cursed me with those unthinkable curses! Can you truly blame me for backing away? It was as if you had left and the phantom from the rumors of the opera house had taken your place."

The amount of self-hatred I felt now was unbearable, creeping in my bones like a thief in the night. One could never reverse the past. I had murdered my chances along with her innocence, lashed out at her unrightfully, wiped away what little loveable qualities she might have seen in me, and drove her into that boy's arms. _Everything I touch turns to ash… _my former thoughts mocked me, laughing at my downfall.

I once read in a book that I had stumbled upon that everyone held a purpose in life, each seemingly infinite turn in the road, each action, ultimately leading to a great happiness. _What was mine? Why did _I _exist? _I was a fool for holding onto the hope of finding that path, pretending that the passageways of the opera house would lead me somewhere as I wandered aimlessly— somewhere where I had a chance in life, unrestrained by my deformity… loved. But, each tunnel was as dark and damp as the previous.

I clenched my fists tightly, assessing the whites of my knuckles as I felt myself nearly drawing blood from my palms. Incredible weight swelled in me, dragging me down and making every thought an effort. Christine being here only worsened the feeling, her retreat with Raoul playing over and over in my head. Her innocent eyes knew not what her presence mocked me with, smothering her choice in my face. She was there but untouchable... not mine. Not _ever _mine. A ghost she was, punishing me for my worthlessness and spite. I had become that monster - exactly who the stagehands whispered of.

"And what if I am and always was that man, the phantom?"

She pondered that before answering, "You weren't… aren't. You forget that I used to spend every moment I could sneak with you. Though I thought you to be some untouchable being, I knew you. You were kind and gentle, a genius teacher whose protection I could _feel!_ It is impossible for me to believe that your entire nature was a charade as well." I stared dumbfounded, ambushed by her innocent reply. How could she find the strength to vouch for my character at all, holding so desperately on to her only scraps of evidence? Even as her Angel I was controlling and selfish. She should be gone by now.

_She should have never come. _

Christine continued on, taking my silence as acknowledgment towards her insight.

"What made you change your mind about revealing yourself to me?"

I sighed jaggedly, realizing that she was far from done with her inquiries. I met her eyes and curled my lip, looking for words that would be less pitiful. I found none.

"I had just left the rose on your dressing room table and upon exiting through the tunnels I heard the ever rambunctious Andre and Firmin bubbling over with success along with the accompaniment of your boy. He was looking for you to spend a moment alone." Christine listened intently, intrigued to hear the story she knew from a different viewpoint. "I followed him back to the room, watching from behind the mirror as you two shared breathless recounts of the summers you spent together. I felt I was losing you, this suitor acting as if he had already won your heart as he prepared to whisk you away. I was desperate as time slipped, knowing you could never love me without knowing I was a man."

My voice was void of the true emotion I longed to express. How trapped I had felt that night, wanting to bang on the glass, wanting her to _see _me. Raoul had been beaming, playing along with her whim as she spoke of her Angel of Music. She had smiled up at his beauty… beauty I did not possess. I had felt as if I were back at the carnival, though as opposed to the onlookers, bound by their money to watch the wretchedness that was the devil's child, I was forced to only watch with horror which_ I_ could not escape from the walls that bound me. I could not interfere or prevent, only _watch._

I tried to sound indifferent, caging in every emotion I felt at the moment. On the surface I spoke my recounts coolly, while on the inside, agony boiled. I was grateful I had not already wept at her very feet.

Christine nodded, considering my account silently. The conversation took a hesitant turn, her dread-filled eyes a darker brown. Though she denied it, I knew she still feared my temperament. I was not the only one who bore a mask in our twisted tale. In one hastened breath she spoke as if upon their hurriedness, the audibility of her words might escape me.

"Why did you kill them?"

**Christine**

**.**

**.**

I was not certain why I attempted to visit that place where the darkest part of his mind lies… where he is so easily capable of murderous actions. Though this question was the one I was most angry at, the most betrayed by, waiting for the answer filled me with an anxiety that made my palms slick. Would he lash out at me?

Erik only looked at me with those pained grey eyes… a look that flashed raw memories of the past, haunted and scarred, before slowly hanging his head and speaking in a voice so blank and lifeless that the cool air stirred from unrecognition.

"I could tell you many reasons— that Buquet already wished me dead or that his preying on girls had gone on far too long. I could tell you that I heard every monstrous story he told of me, twisting my image into something worthy of countless sleepless nights... stories that have been drilled into my head so far I began to believe them. Or, I could even tell you that I've seen him linger by the girl's dressing rooms with staggering steps, staring hungrily at the chorus girls during rehearsals. Staring at _you_." He looked up at this, though not into my eyes, staring intently at the air. "I _enjoyed it, _Christine." His gaze flicked to mine for only one second before traveling away and downward slowly, his lip curling and hands joining stiffly to hang over his knees. My breathing quickened while my hands held the sheets tightly in fists. I did not want to hear more. _ "_As for Piangi, I only meant to scare him away so that I could take the stage as Don Juan. But, while I held a rope loosely around his neck, talk from gendarmes in the rafters, oblivious as to my presence just below their feet, reached my ears. They were finalizing a plan I knew all about, but they spoke of you. _'The Vicomte claims he has finally managed her into agreeing, that she will give the signal to shoot.'_ I had looked down at Piangi after that, but he was dead."

My throat tightened, the words coming out strangled. "You knew I was supposed to betray you, and yet you still came onstage."

His stormy eyes pierced into mine, a sort of fire rekindled beneath the sea before burning out to cold ash, and he spoke simply. "I had planned to do so for months. The plan had not changed."

Thoughts returned to the stage dancing in red fire, a phantom ignoring death on every balcony and singling in on me with each surrounding step, fingers accompanying a voice to claim me again. I let him possess me. Willingly.

"Your plan to manipulate..."

"A plan that dissolved far before the song had ended -" His voice was soft, more so than the velvet coverlet gathered around me. Just as soft as it had been when he had asked for my love - sang for my love - while I stood in his arms on the bridge, his fingers traveling along my neck delicately and without any of the wicked intentions the previous duet of passion and desire might have implied. It had frightened me. The change had frightened me. Never had he shown such pure and innocent _love. _No, the manipulation was absent and I had felt the change like a tickle to my mind.

"But, none of those reasons cloak the blood on my hands. I killed them. Fate had sealed its course on its own terms, locking away the good in me and replacing it with a maddening need for revenge. I was never meant to have you. I don't deserve you, nor I will never forgive myself for all that I caused you." An ache had entered his voice, bringing horrible emotion to life. He whispered silently with eyes now squeezed shut, "I am so _sorry,_ Christine."

My heart broke in two while a reopened wound emerged. The fresh feelings of betrayal swirled in my mind as his words brought images of that pain I had felt, replicating the heart wrenching disappointment when I saw Buquet hanging from the rafters, limply swaying with those lifeless eyes wide with perpetual fear. Or, the stab I had felt when hearing of Piangi's murder yelled by the stagehands in my whirl of escape with Raoul. My own eyes burned with heat, their own perpetual swollenness from my continuous crying throughout this night.

I took a shallow breath and began to tug anxiously at a curl near my shoulder. Mixed with these feelings I felt mercy and pity, my religion combining with every warm thought he had ever inspired in me. He was not evil… only weak and scared. Yes, he was calculating and cunning, a clever man capable of many deeds. But, he never asked for this life, never woke up with a plan to kill. How did I respond? I could not comfort him _or _condemn his actions. I could not judge him for I have also committed sins.

And so, I began to cry exasperated tears, luminescent drops full of emotional burden. He was staring at his hands but at the sounds of my sobs his head raised, his eyes flicking open as he clenched the arms of the chair.

"If… if only you did not kill. I… things might have been different."

"How different, Christine? It only served to reveal the beast inside of the man."

His voice was soft and soothing to my tears, though his words dripped with bitterness and hatred at his fault. Oh, how I wanted to scream in frustration, to stop his suffering along with my own. There was no way, no method. Nothing to take it all away or turn back the vicious hands of time.

"I refuse to believe that! That fear I felt from your actions drove me to despise you and to want to hurt you as much as you had hurt me. I've sinned as well, Erik! My betrayal... I never wanted any of this… If only you did not kill." I repeated threateningly low, my eyes now dry and my hiccups ceasing.

I felt empty, angry at the way fate played out. My gentleness had vanished, replaced by an empty girl... so emotionally exhausted.

I wanted to throw something but, upon finding nothing to do so, I slammed my fist on the bed with all of my might. It did not ease the pain. I tried again and again, each time growing weaker with hysteria, my head lowering to my drawn up knees, the inaudible words I was whispering growing silent.

Erik placed his hand over mine, stopping it altogether. I peeked through the folds in my dress and stared at his hand, his long fingers wrapping slowly around my own slim ones, inexplicably calming me. I looked at his face, expecting a look that one would give an individual they deemed crazy- one they felt sorry for. He gave nothing of the sort. Instead, he gazed at me with a deep understanding before quickly taking his hand from mine, looking inwardly surprised at our contact.

"The kiss… why did you kiss me?"

My stomach did a nervous twist and I turned my head away at his sudden words, tracing my lips with one finger as my long curtain of hair shielded me from sight.

"I wanted to show you that I had chosen you," I stated simply, knowing very well that he would noticed the lie... the change in my voice. He did.

"You kissed me twice. You did not have to kiss me again for me to free you."

It was only hours ago— the feel of the wedding dress dragging in the lake as I walked to him, the ice of the cool band of metal I slid on my finger, his slack hold on the rope at the sight of me, Raoul's distant look of horror. I could never let Raoul die. The choice was to choose Erik willingly or unwillingly. I had stood up on the tips of my toes and held his face as I kissed him, his lips barely moving. He had stood so still. I remember pulling back, not expecting the warmth that had filled me… not expecting the cool shock of just the mere touch of our lips. I had stared at him in a new awe-filled light, blind to where we were, blind to Raoul's presence. With a need that was not completely fulfilled I had kissed him again, grabbing his neck and leaning completely in to him. He had found the will to move and kissed me back, eventually holding me to him in a desperate embrace. _I wanted to kiss him a third time._

"I did not expect to feel what I felt… the second kiss was completely blind to the situation. The first one was to prove my choice. The second… was not at all." I looked away in shyness. It was silent for a few moments before I turned back to look at him and his strange, unreadable expression.

"What did you feel?"

"I felt warmth… feelings I hadn't felt before. I felt everything that contrasted and warred with what I previously thought was hate and fear."

"Yet, you still left singing words of love to Raoul." The words were an unspoken question, restoring every emotion I had felt as he told me to leave. A cold stone had inhabited my stomach at those pleading words, a large confusion to the relief I had been meant to feel. Of course I was overjoyed that Raoul was safe, but nonetheless, that stone in my gut had remained.

"You sent me away! You forced me to leave! Can you blame me, after what kissing you made me feel, for trying to assure myself of my love for Raoul?"

I gasped, feeling as if my very emotions were speaking instead of me. Erik stood and turned, leaving me to look at his back. He was shaking his head, his knuckles white from gripping the chair's back so tightly. When he turned back his expression was a carefully crafted composure. He might as well have been wearing a mask that covered his _entire_ face due to the lack of readable emotion. With a clear of his throat and a voice filled with a painful husk he changed the topic, much to my relief.

"Christine, you should rest for a moment. I will seek out Antoinette to bring you back to Raoul for it will be light in a few hours. I will return here with her before you wake."

I wanted to protest, though no plausible reason to stay came to mind . Raoul might be awake now, worried out of his mind. Erik was right. As if from his words, my eyes started to close even as I fought to keep them open. Surrendering to the beckoning call of sleep, I slid down on the bed and rested my head on the pillow. It was incredibly soft and inviting, taking away any reserve I had about being in a place so intimately his. My eyes closed and, before darkness took me, I felt the light tips of Erik's fingers trace my cheek and jaw.

…..

I woke to silence, the room dim from snuffed candles. I shot up, momentarily disoriented. Looking around, the house seemed neater, as if he had cleaned up some wreckage in my sleep. The smoke scent had dissipated, leaving the place smelling slightly of roses. Where was he? He should have been back by now. I stood and walked around, running my fingers over the keys of his organ. He was right, though it was quite essential to my plan, I was foolish to have come alone. Excitement had been clouding my judgment as to what lurked in the night. Apparently, I had never grown up from that naïve girl I had been as a child.

I walked over to where he kept his roses and wove one into my hair, carefully walking to the broken mirrors to stare at my sad, jagged reflection. The resemblance to my character of Aminta from tonight's performance was almost laughable, the rose in my hair the only flicker of similarity. My cheeks were now deathly pale and my eyes were shadowed with exhaustion.

A ghost... the ghost of the lively girl I once was.

I returned to the bed and sat in a huff of pillows and a tangled coverlet, throwing my arms out straight and falling onto my back to stare at the stone ceiling.

An hour had seemed to have passed and his home was still silent. Surely it did not take this long to find Madame Giry! My warm second-mother in her strict black dress and tightly plaited hair, always full of some secret with that knowing look in her eyes... My torso turned and I followed to bury my face into the bed, wishing to meld right into it and out of this entwining mess.

I had always guessed that they must know each other well, especially from that knowing look she would give me whenever I would come across a single red rose on my dressing room table, tied with a silken black ribbon; or from the way he talked about her, as if they were old friends; and no doubt, it was she who showed Raoul to this place tonight. The little revelation tumbled through my mind and I stood quickly. They should _both_ be back.

It would be logical to look in the halls where I came, near the storm gate on rue Scribe. I would not get lost for I knew those well and it would be accomplishing much more than just waiting here like a sitting duck. The mobs were gone and everyone was asleep. The corridors beneath Paris would surely remain untouched.

With hard resolve driven by my anxiety to reach Raoul before he woke, I grabbed my cloak and boots.

Soon, I would be back in that little room at the inn, as if nothing had ever happened. My heartbeat quickened; I was not ready to face that reality. How could I pretend I felt hatred towards Erik? I was warranted the right - was _expected_ to feel it.

It was always betrayal... an ungodly amount of swirling betrayal, but, I did not hate him. How could I blame a man that had never been shown love for trying to claim it? Would _anyone_ know love if they had lived as he had?

This... this conversation had not given me the closure I needed! In fact, it worsened my condition. I had relied on my feeble loathing, focusing all of my energy and justifications into that one notion. The malice had dissolved. There was now few means to barring any emotions.

I wrung my hands and fastened the emerald cloak with trembling fingers.

What was the correct way to ease the pain if every trial only served to bring me further into my own compiled, mind-bending mess?

...

I took care to scribble a note in case he returned before me and feared for my whereabouts. I placed the parchment on the bed, knowing he would see it. Grabbing a candle, I set off for the boat. The passageways were moist and dark, taking on the shape of an open, gaping mouth. I set through them regardless, calling for Erik quietly, my voice echoing. _Where_ _were they?_ I began to regret my decision after a few turns, cursing myself inwardly for my impulsiveness. Whim and haste would surely wind together into the noose that would be the end of me. No comforting thoughts existed to ease the cold, creeping sensation up my back. Surely, no one else could navigate these tunnels! I began to turn around, knowing I marked the walls that I walked by with some candle wax to aid me in my return. After walking several feet back the way I came, I heard footsteps close by and practically ran to them, only worrying of the chastising I would get from Erik and Madame for my stupidity.

A part of me almost wished Erik would stay with us to bring me back. The other, more reason-seeing side knew that would only make the goodbye even harder to stomach.

How would I ask? How could I, lengthening the inevitable and permanent farewell?

Once I was exceedingly close, I stopped dead as an inexplicable wall of unease prevented me from walking further. The two sets of footsteps were far too clumsy, too clipped.

I extinguished my candle quickly, dropping it to the floor with a hatched instinct. I turned to run but the lurker's glow of light had already reached me like cold fingers, a mocking voice calling my name. "Little _Daae_." I heard a snarling laugh and twisted my head, daring to look. Two men stood, crudely large and reeking of alcohol. Their eyes glowed with purpose at the sight of me, yellow and bloodshot in the candle's light. I opened my mouth to scream but they were faster, one holding a cloth over my face until white seared my vision.

**I bet you didn't see that coming! Hold on to the comfort that this is only chapter 4; the story is far from over. **


	5. Chapter 5

**Now we jump back to Erik before he left the sleeping Christine. Big mistake on his part, huh? **

**Erik**

**.**

**.**

Christine's eyes shut, the energy almost visibly dissolving from her body as her head fell gently to the side. Daring to touch her face, I followed the soft curve of her cheekbone and the line of her jaw.

_She was so beautiful._

I thought of her words, my mind struggling to make sense of them. Her love for Raoul… somehow, I had made her question that. She had touched me— no, _kissed _me_. _After everything I had done to her she had graced my lips with hers once, and then again out of her own unfathomed urge.

I slid my finger along the soft outline of her bottom lip, barely a ghost of a touch as my heart burned with a sad yearning.

I reminded myself of her fear of me, summoning up clear evidence towards her loathing. I was not allowed to hope; I did not deserve it. I closed my eyes and heard every word she had proclaimed on the roof to that boy, speaking of the endless night she had lived in with the monster. I looked around me, the place in vicious shambles. She had been right; I was a monster.

….

This cellar had looked as my soul felt— ripped open, out of place. I had to clear it in hopes that maybe I'd feel less animalistic.

Almost every belonging of mine was now ruined; the treasures I had acquired over the years, scores of music, anything that reminded me of my brokenness I had broken. Their beauty only reminded me of my pathetic charades of surrounding myself in a prince's dream.

Now, it could almost be considered orderly— as orderly as it ever was— though, nothing could help the mirrors or the burned entities from the flames.

I needed to find Antoinette as vowed. I knew she was the only trustworthy candidate for this deed. Well, a twitch of a smirk emerged, the only person at _all_ that I could contact without threatening.

I put on different garments, already feeling relief from the change. Too much had happened in my previous attire, its bloody decor fueling uneasy memories. I slipped on my cloak and snapped on my gloves before snatching the letter off of my desk, glancing once more at Christine before leaving. Oh, but that glance was almost enough to shatter my will for good. I had her here with me after letting her go and yet I still somehow possessed the strength to seek out the means to her final departure.

_She had gotten all of her answers._

I slipped through a passageway with clenched teeth and a heavy heart, though I kept walking.

_She had already unleashed her troubles and anger._

I grabbed the wall from an aberrant misstep, though I kept walking.

_I would never see her again._

My soul ran back the way I came, though I kept walking.

….

My cloak brushed the tips of the ground, following me on my journey. At increments lay my eyes of the opera house; a clever hole in a painting, strategically positioned drapery, cracks in the stone of the walls… I could travel wherever I wished as cunning as a ghost, knowing all yet frustratingly invisible to the inhabitants that dare hear me and wish to know more.

The air was silent, for everyone lay in a nightmare, the staff turning in their sleep from the spectacle I had caused. The dark side of me grinned, basking in the splendor of the panic. The other side, though hardly light, saw the madness in my actions and shot me an annoying ache of remorse.

How could even a sliver of my being care? Every last one of them wished me dead. They had practically turned the Bal Masque into a jubilation for my hopeful demise, everyone weightless in their _Elysian_ peace from my absence. _I_ nearly ran the entire opera house myself as opposed to the dimwitted, most untasteful managers— if you could even call them that. I had been fueled with rage, thinking they should have treasured my presence and my notes. I packed the seats of the theater with my casting picks and stage directions while those senseless directors could hardly tell a tenor from a soprano. I passed the main foyer and looked at the grand staircase I had descended that night, much to their dismay, with a scrutinizing gaze. The Red Death had made his demands, savoring the ensembles frightened, darting looks. Revenge had only been satisfying when languidly drawn out.

It seemed as if a worlds existed between that man and I. I had let malice and spite control me, and in due course, it cost me my world. Now, any feeling towards the past was becoming listless, drifting away with the distant memories. It was as if I were walking a funeral procession, stopping and somberly drinking in each point of my life until I felt it no longer, attaining a feigned closure as I sent the moment off into the night knowing bitterly of my foolish thinking. The world was not as kind to let those memories slip away.

I walked on.

Letting my eyes graze what the walls allowed me to see, snippets flashed by of gild and a smooth marbled stone that immortalized every striking curve of the refined rooms. I memorized each statue and candle, wanting to hold on to those images as I tucked them away for either safe keeping, or cause for nightmare; I was not sure.

I watched the main halls from my own secret corridors, picturing the frivolity and excitement I used to witness daily. Buzz would circle as drunken merry men tested their limits with the ballet rats as they, in turn, tested their innocence; actors would march on oblivious to all else as they practiced their lines in a rapid whisper, practically plowing the crowd down; refined gentlemen would gawk at the wondrous art as they debated the political issues that seemed so separate from this world of imagination; and a sea of chorus girls would be giggling in their nervousness on their way to another rehearsal with blooming hopes of fame. The bubbling had been very nearly contagious. More than once I had caught myself smiling with them or opening my mouth to interject as if no wall of stone stood between us and I walked among them. Those moments only made me more hostile, reminding me continuously of how cut off I was, watching alone from a cold, dark hall as the opera house thrived. I had grown up with these performers, watching their lives bend and change as my life of night remained a constant thrum of solitude humming in my ear. I said farewell to that sad boy as well, willing a numb detachment from the remembrance of his bleak past.

My trek was morbid, making final peace with a life I was still living. I was shocked the mob had given up, though with the fear my name conveyed they might have perceived to encounter much more than a man slumped in surrender, passively waiting for death to relieve him of his agony. Even after all I had worked for at the Populaire, I knew I had to leave— forget. There was no longer a hold to keep me here.

….

I knew the way to Antoinette's room, as was I aware of my passing the possible ways to reach it. The truth was bitter. I had realized she must have had everything to do with Raoul's appearance. He would have never known how to find his way without her. Had that boy not shown, the outcome may have been quite different. I had just begun to tell Christine of my past, the first step to what would have ultimately led to the delving we had just completed. She had not feared me moments ago. In fact, she had appeared quite at peace, calmly listening to my explanations and readily answering my questions. With all of these what-could-have-been's in mind, it was relatively easy to give in to the resentment that began to creep along with my steps.

I paced back and forth in the dark in front of yet another passageway, knowing I only had to take a right and then a left and I would be in front of that humble wooden door. I could not face her, not only for fear of my temperament around her, but for fear of seeing her, the first and almost only woman that had ever shown me kindness after everything I had done to dissolve my deserving of it. I did not want to look into her disappointed eyes, turned away in a submissive manner as she agreed to get Christine away from what she would think to be my continued hold on her. Antoinette will probably believe that I had everything to do with Christine's visit!

I could not bring myself to do it, my feet glued to the crumbling grey stone. I ran a hand roughly through my hair and growled at my cowardice; I towered over the poor woman! With a new determination I sauntered through the turns until I was met with the door, one of the only known doors connecting to these corridors, and sighed as I glanced through the keyhole. The sound was of both relief and frustration. The room was empty.

My thoughts wandered back to Christine and I grew impatient. She would have woken now, what with the internal clock of her unrest to arrive back with her precious Raoul! An idea more welcome than I'd ever dare to admit, I decided that I would return her. There was no time to search for Antoinette and the night was not permanent for the rest of the world; I can't let Christine pay for my falter if she were to arrive later than promised.

I stalked back the way I came, still without light; living a life in darkness had made my senses rather adaptable. My steps grew heavy as I neared the cellars, knowing the time was imminent for Christine's solidified absence. I was used to solitude, though with her… I found myself biding the time.

I had almost stepped back into one of my entrances when I faintly smelled a sickly sweet odor. I turned on my heel and followed the source, a peculiar feeling making my throat tight. My footfalls were barely a sound; I wanted to have the advantage in whatever I encountered.

The pungent scent grew stronger, seemingly floating, and my eyes drew to the ground in a sweeping manner before turning into a gaze so full of a burning fear I was certain it could obliterate the image lain before me from existence. A candle, one from my collection, lay abandoned next to a pathetic crumple of a rose, the sight swaying in my misbelieving vision. My quick mind strung it all together into one ghastly possibility, a thought that filled my body with an indescribable cold. The world held its breath, an eerie calm before a vicious storm.

And then it exploded.

**Raoul**

**.**

**.**

My eyes opened slightly, uneager to leave the pull of sleep. Night was turning to dawn and an almost royal purple sheen shone through the window, washing the room in the color.

The room felt oddly cold, almost larger than it had been before. I ran the back of my hand over my eyes to rub the exhaustion away and turned my head. What I saw woke me up like an icy splash of water, causing me to leap off of the bed in a lightheaded, completely disorienting panic.

I saw… nothing.

Christine was gone.

The sheets lay crumpled beside me and an open window laughed with its billowing curtains. _The window. _Did she…? I dispensed of the thought quickly. Surely the events were not so horrifying that she would decide to take her _life_. Christine would never even consider such a thing.

But, what could have possibly occurred? My thoughts wandered to an unwelcome place, the wound still rash and open. It was _him._ It must be. That horrendous devil must have changed his sick mind and taken her right from my grasp! I grew hot with hatred, vowing to kill him in silent curses under my breath. I had almost died from his games, and yet, that monster was not yet satisfied!

I had grabbed my sword belt and coat, ready to storm back to the all-damning opera house when a halting idea withered away my strength to walk on. I sat on the edge of the bed.

What if she had left me with her own will intact? _Oh, that girl and her pliable mind. _Did she believe that man was redeemable? The scene ran before me, so realistic I could still feel the rope cutting my bound wrists and neck as I watched helplessly, every word I wanted to yell dying before it breached my lips. Christine had kissed him and I had been horrified. _How could she hold his face_, I had thought, _or touch him at all?_ I remembered, far too intensely, every sickening detail, every expression on their open faces. Once I was released I could not reach the boat fast enough, restraining myself with great effort from hurrying her as she lingered near him in tears. She had given him her ring, solidifying her chains that were bound to him. I had almost dropped the oar, listening to her sing lovingly to me with betrayed ears. Who was she convincing? I knew she loved me… I had _thought _she did. What if that wasn't enough?

I wanted to burst; my stomach churned at my thoughts! Was I meant to accept her decision and live on with my life? I _loved_ her; I could not simply give up. Perhaps I was correct and her life really was at risk! Why would she have left with no note, no word? Something did not sit right in my pounding head. With a foreboding determination, I made a promise to myself under the purple light and the shivering, empty air.

I would not rest until I found Christine Daae.

**Christine **

**.**

**.**

_I stood in a blue frock, my small toes wiggling their way through the wet sand. The wind and my tears blurred my vision as I rubbed my red scarf, my only remaining keepsake from my mother, between my thin fingers. Underneath the years of wear I could almost still smell her perfume, the light rose. An abrupt gust of wind suddenly blew the silk through my grip and, to my terror, into the sea! I cried out, standing frozen in silent hysterics. Gone, gone, my mother was gone along with my scarf. But, it wasn't gone for a small figure splashed into the water, retrieved it, and clumsily made his way back to me. I immediately grabbed the young boy in a hug, ignoring his sopping wet clothes. My cheeks felt warm with a grateful happiness and I held the damp scarf to me, mumbling through the fabric to ask his name._

_"__I'm Raoul de Chagny."_

Like a flame of light, consciousness flickered before again snuffing out my senses.

….

_I stood, tying my lace wrapper involuntarily while my mind wandered elsewhere. Raoul remembered me— Little Lotte! I was so certain he did not recognize my face in the mass of chorus girls for he had passed by without a second glance. Oh, but he was so rash, what with expecting me to accompany him to supper without my acceptance. I had told him my angel was strict! He would not understand that Raoul was only an old friend, someone to remind me of home. As if hearing my thoughts, my angel spoke in a resonating voice, asserting his dislike towards my childhood playmate and his impertinence. In a strange haze time must have passed for now my hand was held in his gloved one. How could any of this be? My mind had no time to question; I followed him obediently down stone corridors, flames illuminating his piercing eyes. Those eyes rarely strayed from mine, a knowing look glimmering in their depths. I stared at him with bursting awe, realizing who I was being led by. Caution did not exist, nor did time. This man, this phantom, was touchable and very real. A small part of my mind yelled at me, reminding me of how very far I was from any resident, passerby, or any safety for that matter. The sound of his silk voice hushed that thought into nothingness. Like out of a fairytale, I was guided on an ebony horse by a darkly captivating knight before then travelling curious waters, every reflection swallowed by the mist. We finally reached the lavish home and I sang for him, desperately wanting to please the _ man _and not some celestial being_. The man! _The future was now an endless twine of possibilities. Soon, a delight to my thirsting ears, he sang to _me_. The song romanticized the night and my body thrummed with energy in the thought of it all, any reserve fading away as I wrapped myself in his voice. He held me closely to him, letting his hands roam my bodice slowly as my eyes closed and my strength to stand began to wane. Who was he? _

….

_I sat with Meg in the dormitory facing each other on our small beds, still in constant check of our fleeting seclusion. I had confided in Meg in a breath of a whisper of my time with the phantom as she listened closely with eager ears. I left out his rage-filled outburst and vulnerable admittances for I still needed time to process those. A dreaming night had turned into a horrible morning as I witnessed a rage in him that I had never known... even when he was just an angel! _

_Meg was twirling her blonde curls between her fingers, her blue eyes bright with excitement._

_"__I can't believe this!" Her expression turned inward as she absorbed my account. "The Opera Ghost is a man… He took you down to… to the cellars!" She scrunched her face before slapping a hand over her mouth in sudden revelation._

_"__What is it, Meg? Please tell me you don't know him… do you?"_

_Meg jumped up, motioned for me to follow, and then led me to a small storage room attached to the dormitory. It held stage props and arbitrary parts of costumes along with the air of a perfect hiding place. She took her time making sure we were perfectly alone before closing the door with a barely audible click._

_"__My mother… she told me once of a man she knew that lived beneath the opera house. She had rescued him from some tragedy when they were young and hid him there, assisting in whatever accommodations he needed. Oh, I just can't remember all of the details! I had discovered a secret passageway one early morning before you came to live here many years ago and mother had whisked me away and sat me down, only telling me the story with knowledge of my inevitable pestering had she not explained it!"_

_"__And you did not know he was the phantom?" It seemed strange that she would have walked around clueless to her own awareness! _

_"__No! I know that sounds silly, but… I had never known he came up from his home! After a while it all slipped from my mind for I believed he would have left by then, once it was safe, or maybe if a relative found him. When the phantom's tricks began three years ago— Well, I guess I thought them to be two different beings! How does one survive all these years as he does? Oh, I wish I could remember more! Mother told me to never ask again." _

_"__Can you think of his name? Did she tell you?"_

_Meg was lost in a train of thought, clearly thinking quite hard when suddenly her eyes blazed with remembrance._

_"__His name… it's Erik!" _

_ …__._

My head felt fuzzy and warm and upon opening my eyes I could not see a thing. Fabric tickled my nose; I was blindfolded. My arms and legs were bound as well with the same rough fabric. The ground I sat on moved, rumbling and jaggedly bumping. The sound of wheels on an uneven surface sent a shiver of fear down my arms. A flood of realization returned as my fatigue faded, bringing along with it the searing memory of my sudden capture. I felt like I couldn't breathe, as if the rags were stuffed down my throat along with their deterring my movement.

_How long have I been in here? Where were we going?_

I began to thrash violently, the relentless fabric digging into my flesh.

_Was I still in Paris? …France?_

I tried to scream but a large hand came down over my mouth, muffling the sound. I bit it hard, tasting dirt and sweat. I heard a grunt before another hand came down on my face hard, leaving my ear buzzing and my cheek hot. A rough voice growled his threat and I trembled at the icy drip of his words.

"Careful, _mademoiselle_. Next time, I may not be so nice as to let you wake up."

**Erik**

**.**

**.**

I burst into my home that, though ice cold, felt as hot as hell. I should never have left her alone. Letting out a yell of anguish, I madly walked around the premises grabbing what I needed. I threw it all on the bed: weapons, an array of masks, garments, and a rather large amount of francs. The area she had slept on was still warm from her presence, an agony to my trembling hands.

"All my doing, this was all my doing," I repeatedly muttered under my breath as I packed it all.

The bed was so ruffled and disarrayed that I almost missed the slip of paper hiding beneath a fold in the coverlet. I paused and read the thin script with dreading eyes before crumpling it and holding it in a fist.

_She had been searching for me. I had taken my time wandering… and she had been searching for me. _

The only thread keeping me from falling apart was the dooming clock hanging over my head. Time was the enemy here. No other concrete figure existed yet— no name to condemn. Time could not be wasted.

I focused on my breathing, the dismal swirl of my thoughts throwing dots of black in my vision. I walked back into the halls with an uncharacteristic stumble, desperate to get the chemical aroma out of my spinning head.

Armed for whatever I might encounter, I stalked to my makeshift stable to retrieve Cesar. I had reached to yank the rope that held him to the wall when I saw yet another piece of paper protruding from the space between two stones. With all of these notes I began to understand the frustration I had caused with my own. I ripped it out of the wall and read it in dire confusion. On the front lay a colorful image of a carnival tent, the inducing familiarity it caused forcing me to lean on the wall against the weight of the scarring memories. A clown's head served as the opening to the tent and its eyes seemed to watch you as its taut mouth smiled a sickly sneer. Gaudy letters titled the front: _Coney Isle's Carnival of Freaks. _I swallowed hard and flipped it over, at first not understanding the purpose. Oh, but the intent soon became quite clear. It's crudely scribbled letters almost caused me to drop the invitation, one word holding more power than what I ever dare thought the entire mob could bring.

_Hurry._

The address resided in America.

I slid the paper into my cloak and mounted Cesar in one leap, whipping the reins into action as we thundered out of the exit, only stopping once to check the whereabouts of the note I had placed under a wooden crate beside one of the exits to the building. I breathed a jagged sigh of relief; it was gone. Out of all of my sin's retributions, I had been granted with this one triumph.

The sky was the grey of dawn that gave every tree and building a most ominous gleam. I strategically placed my hood so that it would shadow my mask as we raced past the lower class of Paris setting up their markets, barely seeing their startled looks at our rather disrupting disturbance to the still and rapid-approaching morning. The only sound I heard was the change from the clap of Cesar's hooves on stone to the crunch of his pounding on leaves as we entered a path in the woods. Hopefully Nadir, upon reading my letter, had understood the utmost prominence and was already on his way to our usual meeting spot. _Don't fail me, Daroga. _

Each second brought a new horrifying image into my head of what might be happening to Christine, each worse than the last. I shuddered as they filled every hollow of my being, swirling with questions and shuttering imaginings of an anguished girl, helpless to whatever forces held her prisoner. Why was she their victim? How could she have possibly been the heart of this game of deliberate abduction? She has endless admirers, which I'm sure also brings a jealous-ridden collection that would not mourn the disappearance of Paris' beloved songbird. Did the drunkards of the theater succumb to their repulsive yearnings, not fully appeased by the glimpses they could see through their holes in the wall of the girl's dormitory? I clenched the reins tighter, every muscle turning rigid from every sordid possibility, none of which explaining the strange destination. Who would go to the trouble of smuggling her to America?

My line of thought was only disrupted when Cesar halted suddenly, rearing back with a scared whinny. I had been mindlessly urging him on with the reins nearly into another horse! Annoyed at any interference to the withering time I had towards my rescue, I precariously steered Cesar around the other stallion and his rider while tugging the hood farther over my face. The last thing I needed was to be recognized, a predicament that would only serve to present an even larger setback. I looked out of the corner of my eye at the passerby and was met with his own curious gaze. The face nailed into place, as did mine, even amidst the smoke sky and a shared haste. I stared at him with calculating eyes as his own were filled with hatred. He had found his target.

"Where is she," Raoul demanded with what I could only predict to be his stab at intimidation. I moved my eyes to the tight grip he held on his sword and then back to his gaze, almost inclined to laugh at the look of near triumph in his expression.

_Ah, if only I knew._


	6. Chapter 6

**Erik**

.

.

The air was the cold that whipped through your clothes, unforgivingly burning your eyes and your throat. A dense copse of dark trees lined the hidden dirt path I had ridden to, worn from continuous travel, leaving you forced to either continue on or turn back; not even I knew what lurked in this area of the woods.

Meanwhile, a mighty Vicomte trailed behind me with an unending line of threats that ended in a faltering, exasperated whine as so:

"Answer me, you… you demon!"

"You foul, cowardice beast, you just weren't finished with your games, were you? Was that it?"

"Was her freedom a sick joke to you, dangling it in front of us all before, again, snatching it?"

"I know you have her. I demand you tell me where she is or I vow that this will be the last of your days!"

His efforts were notable, I'd grant him that tribute.

I slowed Cesar, each comment bouncing off of my occupied mind harmlessly, and twisted around to meet him with a venomous glare as I let my hood fall completely. All I saw was my world breaking down to ash before my eyes, but the need for intimidation managed to find his gaze. I needed to keep his fear alive, even after having seen me at my weakest.

"If I did have Christine, as you so knowingly proclaim, do you truly believe I would be taking a leisurely ride on this horse for all to witness? Would I leave her at all? Not even _you _are that foolish."

Raoul looked like he had been punched. His only lead had been crushed, leaving him with a blank look in his eyes. A sickening daze had taken over his features, erasing any victory as my words settled.

I was almost inclined to pity him. He had to have put every hope into this blame, casting aside worry by holding on to my guilt. Now, he was left to relinquish any thoughts of an easy save from the man—who he had so recently witnessed the depths of his vulnerable mortality, much to my humiliation— in the cellars.

In fact, though begrudgingly, I did feel an ounce of sympathy. _Sympathy. _He was wearing exactly as he had worn last night when I had squeezed the Punjab's rope tight around his neck. I had used him insidiously as a ploy to my manipulation, knowing very well that Christine could not refuse. It was unsettling seeing him so soon after my attempt at his murder and, at the sight, I whirled around to face forward, away from his stripped green eyes. With a kick I urged Cesar onwards, staring into the horizon until the line between the grey sky and indigo earth blurred. The shame I felt only magnified, warring with the determined set of my square jaw. Why could he not leave? His presence, his voice, merely fed the ravenous beast that feasted on my pain. I still could see him writhing as his life lay literally in my hands, while, only picturing loving Christine in his hold.

_This is all of my fault._

I wanted to kill him, finishing what I had started hours ago, while wishing he would bolt the other way, away from my painful remorse; away from my withering will to hold myself together for Christine's sake.

Humanity truly did halt my narrowed thoughts; though even for a monster, a moral compass ticks.

Ah, but he followed with a clap of his boot on his own steed.

"Where do you think you're going? You must know _something_; you would never leave knowing Christine was missing with such indifference."

_Indifference? I would hardly call indifference wanting to strangle every person responsible for her abduction with my bare hands, watching the life drain from their worthless eyes._

Her kidnapping was only a puzzle, one which emotions only delayed the progress of. I would find a way around each wall and a method to overcome each void in my path, not resting until I found my way back to her.

I called to the air in front of me, "I, dear Raoul, am meeting a friend."

**Raoul**

**.**

**.**

He did not have Christine.

I stared at the man, only feeling his hands forcefully binding my arms, winding the rope around my neck; only seeing his lips on Christine's, his murderous hands on her delicate waist; only hearing the resonant, deceiving voice that had captured her soul.

And yet, he did not have Christine.

I grabbed Phillip's reins to steady myself, the earth turning around me. The trees grew in slanted and the ground threatened to slam into my side. I closed my eyes and breathed slowly until I had rationally calmed.

He had to know something. Yes, he had let her go— let both of us go. But, his feelings for her could never have diminished over the course of a night.

Or… ever, for that matter.

Though shown in a horribly twisted way, I knew how much this man loved Christine. In the depths of my mind, I must have always known.

And I loved her, also.

And she was gone.

Or at least, that was the primary possibility that barged its way into my panic-filled head! Could she be with the Giry's? She would have left a note, or better yet, spoken to me about her random excursion!

No, that beast was showing enough emotion in his eyes for me to know otherwise. Nothing innocent had happened— no misunderstanding.

Well, either way I wouldn't _know_, for my only source of info rode on into dawn with an impenetrably shut-off demeanor.

I tried to prod it out of him— provoke a reaction. I called his bluff, waiting for him to turn around again and snap at my claim, revealing anything that could help my search. I wanted to be near him no more than he must fancy my presence.

He did nothing of the sort.

Sure, I could involve the most elite gendarmes of Paris. My family's funds could hire the most renowned investigators in all of France!

But, what could they go on? My one connection was this horrible, masked man and he was already slipping into the distance. All I possessed was an empty room at the inn with a window, open and forgotten in the icy wind that echoed my fervent questions. They would call my claim absurd! Or, at least, impossible to solve. Christine would never be found.

I had no choice but to follow him— Erik. The name felt vile merely thinking it. Who was this friend he spoke of, this man blind enough to help that creature?

**Nadir**

**.**

**.**

The wind rustled the leaves around my boots, the winter gusts provoking a lazy, swirling vortex; and, I, was in the eye of it. I sighed at my pocket watch, the thin hand wound much farther around its circular path than from when I first arrived here. The golden pattern wrapped around the front of the case, only now starting to show some signs of age in the minor tarnish dusting the innermost crevices of the intricate carvings. It had been a gift from Erik long ago.

Where _was _that man?

I knew that he would leave Paris eventually, fed up with his way of living. He had always been such a free spirit, needing to learn every aspect of the world, full of an insatiable wanderlust. And I once promised him that I would accompany him on his departure, whenever it would be.

That oblivious girl had practically chained him to the opera alone with his love, hopeless in the depths of the cellars! I was there at _Don Juan, _though I rarely attended the operas, led by an inexplicable feeling of dread whispered by its harbinger. I sat in the velvet seat in frozen shock at the performance before me, or lack thereof. I watched the Vicomte's open splay of emotions on his face as he stood at the balcony, unmoving and forgotten. Oh, but then she took off his mask!

I had watched the crystal chandelier come crashing down, fueled with love's betrayal, screaming a thousand screams with its diamonds shuddering and the rope drawing a rapid line in the arching ceiling. The panic was deafening, everyone dashing for the exits in their best evening attire. But, I? I remained and stared with horribly pained eyes as he whisked Christine down, knowing he had finally ruined it. I could vividly imagine what happened there, a solemn guess at what caused him to finally want to leave all that he had created here— all that he loved.

The letters had begun to dwindle over the months until stopping almost completely— right around the time a certain engagement was printed in the papers. I was almost stunned to have found a crisp envelope this morning on my customary stroll from my house at rue de Rivoli. I checked the box only out of habit; we had not seen each other in quite some time. He sometimes wrote of news in the opera, progress of his works… rarely of her. But this letter, I was not surprised of the words it held. In fact, once I held it, it seemed to weigh down in my hands, daring my fingers to open the depressing insides. Its contents were not quite as lengthy as usual, but, heartbreaking to say the least. Each word was etched with heavy pain, the ink practically bleeding into the point of incomprehensibility. _It's time, Daroga, _it had said at the bottom_. _I could almost hear his voice as if it were next to me, drained and blank as I read it with a heavy heart. I held the disappointment a brother would have whom had hoped for change only to realize he was still left to put the pieces back together for his stubborn, unwilling, though constant comrade.

So, here I have waited by the large tree in our secluded hideaway in the forest since his instructed time of half past four. But, now dawn's sun was bleeding orange through the trees and Erik was still nowhere in sight.

We couldn't go back to Persia— that was positively certain. Erik was perceived a dead man, and dead he would remain to them if I had any say in it! To add to the matter, I was also banned— a pesky predicament for returning to my beloved home. The last thing I needed, along with my being strung along to suffer the consequences of Paris, was to have the Shah's sycophants hounding us. No, we had to disappear. Maybe Germany? Vienna? The Viennese always had a way with music; we could begin again.

And to think I was beginning to enjoy Paris and its marvelous culture! I would be bitter towards the magnitude of my faithful, abiding friendship had he not saved my life more times than I could count.

A clap of hooves and the blustering breath horses sported grew louder in the silence and I whirled towards its direction.

_Finally. _The early signs of hypothermia had begun to creep up my fingers and toes and the vastness of the forest had started to swallow my form. I rubbed my hands together and stomped my feet, watching the horses approach through the white air of my breath.

_Horses? _As in, _more than one?_

Dumfounded, I peered into the trail and nearly stumbled at the unsettling sight.

My masked friend rode his black steed, his cloak flowing in the wind behind him like angry waters. Even after years of association his presence still held that recklessness, formidably striking in a way that made you stare and fear. He was a force to be reckoned with, blending with the trees, a stark white mask showing his snarl.

Along with years of friendship came the teetering, sometimes faulty, though usually gratifying ability to decipher his expressions and peculiar habits. I never could quite figure out the whole story, a man with that ungodly level of complexity not one to ever fully let his guard down. The mask had affected him over the years, an ever-present barrier there to shield him from the world. He, in turn, grew to mask all of himself, including, but not limited to, his emotions which were only magnified from endless repression.

Though, now, the strain in his face; the unendurable pain in his eyes, the blue of them a ring of eternal and broken sadness; his rigid hold on the reins; the occupied look of a thousand miles away— I knew something had gone horribly wrong.

But on the other horse… Raoul de Chagny, to my complete dismay, towed closely behind. And here I thought I was accustomed to surprises, what with a companion like Erik and his whiplash ways! Raoul's visage and motive was much more difficult to determine. I hardly knew the man! I did know, only adding to my shock, that Erik had attempted to kill him. I had remained as the theater evacuated, ready to storm the winding passageways myself. I could not let Erik do this, though I knew he had passed his own point of any return. The song had morphed into a deadly mantra that I feared would lead him to his final end! He needed to be stopped, to know that he _could_ stop, for Allah's sake! Before I had talked myself into interfering— I had merely entered a hall after the delay of the endless crowds— Raoul had run past me with one arm crushingly around Christine. His other hand was groping at his neck, the raw ring of rope burn prominent.

And Christine's face, the brokenness…

The murder effort an obvious factor aside, Raoul looked so completely distraught. He did not appear to want to kill Erik, as I had previously suspected, but as if he wanted something— and was failing at getting it.

I shuffled over with an exasperated sigh, knowing I was more than likely about to be dragged into some antic or another.

"Change of plans, Daroga!"

His voice lacked the usual flamboyantly acerbic tone to it, the effort at his frequently worn nonchalance completely transparent.

"What do you mean— are we not leaving France? What about the letter?"

I was not sure whether to feel elated or quite petrified! I had been trained in the Persian court as chief of police for the Shah; I was a man held high in honor and fear. But, if we remained here, a Vicomte more than likely bent on sharing our whereabouts with all of France's gendarmes, we would never make it. I was now an accomplice to Erik's crimes and would pay along with him.

Raoul sat quietly on his stallion, though his face was a frustrated twist at the lack of acknowledgment as he waited and listened.

"Well, yes we are… but Nadir, never mind the letter! It's Christine—"

Erik's calm visage faltered drastically and, in his haste to come down, he nearly stumbled off of the horse, gripping the tree tightly as he fought for words. Though, I noted curiously, he could never seem to rid himself of that fluid elegance in his motions even in the most panicked of movements. He looked like Atlas, the weight of the world balancing itself on his shoulders. The entirety of its effect on him was just now surfacing as his mind began to think and remember, the momentum and adrenaline vanishing as he stood there with ceaseless thoughts visibly racing behind his eyes. He was suffering a bereavement beyond imagination, his expected coolness edged with this look of utter despair. Had the girl somehow perished? I could not bring myself to speak or interrupt his innermost thoughts.

"They've taken her. I do not know who… but they took her the moment they could! We need to get her back." Erik spoke in a distracted voice, the words coming out of him like a generated message only serving to explain. It was as if no one else were there in that forest of frosted trees and hissing wind. "Oh, if it is the last thing I do," he growled to himself, "I will find her."

No, this was much worse than her death. Death was final. Disappearance… at the hand of some predator… he did not know if she were alive or not; if she were suffering or not. I could see it in his eyes, the root of his anguish and contempt. He hated himself for his own incompetence, uselessness… Nothing angered Erik more than a problem that he could not fix, as he so always held himself to an inhuman standard that, once questioned or unmet, crumbled his world and fueled his self-hatred further.

Fate had played its card, winding in the one person he could not live without into a maze that not even Erik possessed the solution to. It was cruelty in the highest degree, some unknown force almost knowingly trying to push this cursed man past his breaking point once and for all with every scarring event he had lived through.

Oh, I saw the ever-present malice, the frightening bloodlust as he already calculated every possible solution with cunning ingenuity even amidst the shattering hold that her random abduction had over his every sense. But, if he failed at this, I thought with rising fear and creeping, dreadful apprehension; there would be no more of him— no more humanity.

Raoul jumped off his own white mount, looking both as if any second he would flee back the way he came, while holding a curiously varying look of careful determination, frustration, and bitter contempt all in one; if such a look existed.

"Can someone _please _tell me what is going on?!"

Erik, without a glance at his previous enemy, slid a small paper from his vest and handed it to me, letting me in on his agony.

_America._

We were going to America.

**Christine**

**.**

**.**

Once I had come out of my drugged daze, after I first understood the intensity of this ordeal, my first clear realization had been that I was in a brougham. I had not recognized the door against my back or the familiar feel of its bumpy sway in my previous haze of slipping in and out of consciousness.

Blindfolded I had remained for the short trip that felt like a lifetime in my cramped position and horrid thoughts. As we came to a stop, so did two other carriages that I had failed to notice before. The man with me barked an order to stand and something in his voice, the rasp of taut patience, forced me to obey with a shiver of fear down my back, my legs weak and aching from the crumpled position I had sat in. My bound hands made standing quite difficult and my captor yanked me up, practically shoving me out of the carriage. I had landed savagely on gravel and the chalk smell and dust flooded my nostrils, causing my eyes to water.

From what I could gather, there were five men— maybe more… maybe less. Footsteps were not reliable to my failing attempt at discovering _anything. _I did recognize the voice of the one that had known my name back at the Populaire, sending me into a relapse of my last sight; his horrible, looming form, their liquor-filled breath, the helpless slip into drugged unconsciousness. Hate filled every crevice of me, only quieted on the outside by my utter impotence.

I was then crudely and roughly led inside a house, hands grabbing at me while throaty laughs ensued. Not one monster respected or treated me more than an inanimate prize to bring to their waiting master. I had stumbled over everything in the darkness until I was thrown into a dark room, a hand simultaneously ripping off the blindfold to give me the view of four window-less grey walls.

An hour had seemed to pass before the door opened with the slide of a bolted lock and a sad bowl of stew was shoved across the floor, its contents sloshing over the side. My stomach growled, though I had pierced the door with my stare for a considerable length of time before succumbing and consuming the gritty, barely edible meal.

They had come in the room at intervals, muttering under their breath before, again, closing the door; once to make sure I had eaten; once to take away the bowl; and, twice more to make sure I was still in the same corner I had grown to inhabit.

Of course I had already tried my hand at questions, asking and crying out until my voice grew hoarse. But, I had long since learned that hell would freeze before those heartless puppets would tell me a thing. I was not mindless. Once I realized my efforts were to no avail, that these captors had no intentions on telling me one single explanation, I simply stopped. In fact, they had seemed to quite enjoy my obliviousness.

And disgusted, I had decided that sitting mute would give me a small victory- a mental upper hand.

I was left with my own thoughts for a while, watching the same crack on the wall, infuriatingly disoriented and drowsy. A million questions flitted around, while my encounter with Erik sat abandoned in the back of my mind. I could not think of him now… not yet.

What a fool I was, thinking the only problem I, poor Christine Daae, possessed was my dramatic opera of a life! At least I had felt minute control then, taking my life by the reins and deciding my own ending. Now, the future was a horrific black abyss, controlled by worthless monsters while I sat in resignation and waited for the next atrocity with a grim, unsettling expectancy.

For maybe the first time in my life, music had abandoned my soul. The quiet, erratic refrains I would hear in everyday sounds had vanished, the formerly unceasing thrum of melodies only a distant memory.

The warmth that used to envelope my body in Paris knowing I was surrounded by the people and sights that were so familiar and constant was stripped away, leaving me cold and blank— a lifeless doll, disturbed to the point of cracking its glass skin.

My eyes and nose were so raw and agitated to the degree where I no longer cried, the tears frozen in protest.

I prayed to my father, pleading for him to change my fate. I would give anything to go back to living with him on the streets of Sweden, having a seemingly poor life to outsiders and onlookers while we ignored it all, feeling unbelievably and unbreakably rich in our love and music.

I needed his guidance… hope.

My thoughts then left me empty; submissive and empty, a feeble-skinned French actress slowly accepting her fate. Of course I dare not show this to my captors— now, when in their presence, I was the picture of infuriating blankness— but, strength falters when you're alone.

_Wash,_ they had ordered, steering me by the arm into another smaller room with a tub and dressing screen. _You must look presentable. _Then, as if feeling naked without their habitual threats meant solely to squash my spirits under their boot, one of the larger men had sneered; though, my passiveness was quickly ruining their repulsive amusement, _And don't think of trying anything. You will have wished yourself dead the day you let that quiet mind of yours attempt escape._

_The day? _I had stared at the retreating man, knowing then that this was something revoltingly planned with each hour commencing a new, deliberately calculated step. His smile had faltered at my intense look as I searched him, trying to find any sliver of compassion or morality.

They were always vague, so infuriatingly vague while they conversed in hushed tones, only speaking to me in clipped orders. I knew nothing.

I stood and looked at the metal tub as if waiting for it to explain itself. Though far from a kindness— I saw nothing but an order being followed in their servitude stature, their lack of power leaving them to play with the prey only mentally with threatening words— I did not question this time; I merely grabbed any chance of solitude.

….

Once I was alone, I moved the dressing screen to block the tub from any view. The only comfort I had in my safety to bathe was the loud click of the bolt. It would serve as a harbinger had any of them tried to come in. And, quite honestly? I was not certain they wouldn't.

I let the lukewarm water soak me, slowly draining every strain of panic from my sore joints in this momentary state of normalcy, this feigned barrier to cruel reality of my still unexplained abduction.

Maybe I could pretend I was not here if I just closed my eyes.

Now, I could almost feel Erik's warm velvet coverlet engulfing my body, warm sunshine and tickling flowers at my toes, or even the radiant ray of a spotlight as I sung onstage as opposed to this imminently cold, unfeeling water.

But, I opened my eyes and the metal washbasin only felt icy against my shivering, exposed skin and the pungent fragrance of the herbal oil grew as its scent wafted innocently from its container, threatening to penetrate the blissful wall I had built solely for the survival of my sanity. Every second with these men brought me mentally further from home, further from anyone I loved, from all that made up my life, my entire soul; the invisible clock ticked, its monotonous echoes pounding at me from all sides until I drew my knees up to my chin in a crumpled and defeated heap. I could very well be only minutes from Paris— still in Paris!— though, my mind refused to believe it.

I submerged my head under the water, my hair swirling around me in a cape of tickling dark; and, I screamed. No one could hear me… no one could save me; but, in the dark that so perfectly mirrored my mind, I screamed.

….

After several minutes of mindlessly watching the strange pattern on the dressing screen while my fingers and toes pruned, I heard a slow click and the lazy creak of the heavy door.

Every nerve in me froze, fields of goose bumps rising on my arms.

My eyes darted in a frenzy, searching for any way out of this inescapable hell.

_This is not real… If I wish it away, it will leave me be._

Childish thoughts whirled in my brain, my innocence fighting against its rapid-approaching end.

I shakily grabbed a towel— as if that could truly shield me from whatever defiler had slinked in as quiet as a shadow— and held it to my chest, barely breathing.

But, a soft voice called out; a girl's voice.

"Mademoiselle," it started carefully, the title coming out awkwardly. "You don't have to worry… I only bring something to change into. No one will come in."

I slowly stood up and wrapped myself in the towel, letting out a quiet gasp of relief. My insides seemed to unwind themselves as my thudding heart calmed. Stepping out into the shivering air, I peered around the screen and saw a beautiful girl. She was definitely foreign; her hair was a cascade of straight ebony and her skin a warm chestnut. _Mediterranean_, I decided. Her eyes were a dark emerald, her face rid of the childish softness so that it almost looked carved. She appeared to be around twenty— a few years older than me.

The girl seemed warm enough and I almost found myself pulled to her, yearning for any form of kindness. Though extremely inexplicable, I believed her words. Maybe it was because she was the first person to treat me with decency; or, from the lack of coldness in her demeanor… though, like a frightened caged animal struggling to trust once more in an unkind world, I believed her nonetheless.

I let her help me with the corset of the simple dress as I stared down at its stiff pleats. I was so used to the elaborate, extreme costumes at the opera that this stark change only served to solidify further the death of that naïve girl who believed that the good in the world would outweigh the bad. Though, a small weight released with the gratitude and comfort of being out of that thin, practically transparent nightdress.

I could feel her watching me while both of us stood silent, her nimble fingers working the black lacing.

A precarious battle was waging in my mind; my wanting desperately to break the silence versus my fear of severing whatever unspoken agreement we had come to of savoring the short moment away from the cruelty, floating in a quiet understanding.

Why should she help me? She was evidently tied to the other men— a relative, maybe. And, she did not even know me or hold any reason to have my interests at heart.

But still… I was delirious and my hope for humanity was crumbling, begging me to find something concrete to hold on to— compassion in any form.

"Why am I here?" I prodded carefully, questioning softly in hopes of breaking that servitude bond that seemed to hover over her.

I turned to face this girl only to watch her eyes grow a colder and more distant green before she dropped her task and walked away abruptly, leaving me to watch with horror as my one attachment to normalcy slipped away. She looked me in the eyes before closing the door, almost willing me to see the regret buried deep within its emerald depths.

"They'll send for you soon."

….

Through equally strange, hushed, and natural events I now found myself dreadfully waiting to board a train to Cherbourg, on the coast of France— or, so the crowds of waiting families murmured. I had stiffened upon hearing their distant voices, untouched and unaware of my ordeal as they spoke of beaches and time away from the heavy fog of the more recent government troubles. I blocked out the rest of their words as my captors shuffled me to a more remote area by a desolate bench.

Something about one of their arms sickeningly tight around my waist and their breath in my ear felt grossly possessive, making me feel very wary about my chances of breaking free long enough to alert anyone, along with turning my stomach quite ill.

This station was decrepit and seedy, a low-costing way out of the city for the lower class and some frugal bourgeoisie. From what I could see, very little hands of authority bothered their time with this specific area of Paris, leaving me scant hope of reaching one at all—

_Paris…_

Sweeping my hungry gaze, I gasped at what I had failed to see before when I resided in my distractedness. We had not yet left Paris at all, or its capturing view of the frosted, crowning Seine River; the thriving greenery, its beauty hardly muffled by the dust of snow; the architecture that appeared to be painted by the hands of heaven… this was home. I was nowhere near any familiar area, but, peculiarly, I still felt comforted.

Though, the feeling was temporal as I was brutally reminded by my current surroundings of my impending departure from the last wisp of tangible familiarity amongst this dizzying envelopment of the obscure future.

….

They had given me a large hat with netting to cover my face along with the plain grey dress that I had changed into, every detail now clear to its purpose of keeping me insignificant and unnoticed. I felt the fabric between my fingers, barely breathing under the early morning sun. I had caught some of the names of these men as they conversed on the platform; Nicolae, Besnik, and Yoska were with me now along with the girl that had helped me with the dress. No one spoke to her.

She would not meet my eyes.

I was not sure where the other two men had gone; they were the ones that had taken me in the first place. These three seemed to be the brains behind the operation, not ones to do the dirty work. And the girl? I knew not her name or role, but only guessed she must be one of their daughters.

Of course, now in daylight, there was no doubt that these were gypsies what with their strange accent, tanned skin, dark hair, and piercings amongst the stark difference of a fair-colored public with an air of practiced elegance. I had only heard of the Romani through stories and disgusted recounts of their vagabond ways from the bourgeoisie ladies' complaints as they roamed around the theater's splendor, swelling their noble image while making small talk. That was precisely Meg and mine's newspaper: the gossip we heard daily as we wandered insignificantly by the shadows of the older inhabitants and visitors.

_Meg… would I ever see her again? Hear her infectious laugh?_

And gypsies… they were displayed as heathens, crude thieves that traveled like nomads with their fairs and camps. They were, to my faulty knowledge, unrestrained by social norms and indulged in all of life's sins. I knew the words were harsh and generalizing, but with the first impression of cruelty that had been shown to me, I was not sure _what_ these men were capable of.

Of course, it was not that I held myself any higher; I was looked upon with almost as much disdain as an actress, an unrenowned way of life that though highly esteemed for entertainment, was never viewed with much respect from the view of the upper-class or nobles. Ironically, Raoul and I were the most unlikely couple, what with him being a Vicomte. The de Chagny family had been beside themselves upon hearing of our engagement, though never voicing their displeasure with their son's highly unforetold choice out of visibly strained respect. Raoul always told me not to pay attention to their hidden slights.

_Raoul… will I ever see those green eyes that have never failed to transport me back to those summer months by the sea? Ever feel your familiar arms around me, telling me I'm going to be alright?_

Bringing my attention back to my odd captors, I inspected that they were dressed nicely in fashionable suits, only adding to my confusion. Where had they gotten all of this money? The strange girl, as transitory as a ghost, still wore her sweeping Romani skirts that contrasted all fashion of the time, setting her apart like a harlot from her fashion-conforming escorts to uninformed spectators. She stared straight ahead, detached and unconcerned with other's thoughts as she focused fixedly on a point in the distance through the hustle and clamor around us, waiting for our means of departure.

I could see it in the distance now, growing closer with its scream of an engine. I frantically looked around me as if looking for an anchor to keep me here, something to grab hold of, no matter how hard these gypsies tried to drag me away. Nicolae caught my eye with a cool, smiling stare, daring me to try while still, concurrently holding a conversation with his partners. My pulse quickened until I knew not if I shook from the rattling boards of the railway or from my own wrenching thudding as my heart broke, straining and yearning to tie me to where I stood. What was waiting in Cherbourg?

_Erik… oh, how much I would give to be surrounded by your voice, to feel life pulsate through my veins once more, easing away all of my pain. Save me— take this all away!_

….

Once on board, Yoska, across from Besnik, seemed to stare at me as if I were a coiled snake. My horrible calm was unsettling to even myself, that was certain, but there was something else behind his eyes… just as there had been when he reacted to my intense stare by the washroom. It was not fear— he was twice my size and age, scarred from years of rough living— but, it was almost recognition… a sort of double-take at examination.

I tried focusing my thoughts away from Raoul, Erik, Meg, my father and even Madame Giry, but every time I looked out of the window, I saw another one of their ghosting images mirroring my own frantic gaze in its prisoning reflection as the scenery flew by. Panic fueled every motion, every sweep of my eyes. But, I did not move. What could anyone do for me? What would happen to myself _or _them if I happened to bring attention to my situation? I was trapped in the passenger car, sandwiched between the window and Besnik on a cold wooden bench. I was in the lion's den a hundred feet below clarity as I sat with the monstrous cats of prey!

The trio played cards as hours slipped past while watching me from the corner of their eyes. The girl sat in silence, though I could feel her stare at times. I looked out of the window, forcing myself not to make a sound. Their presence was like a shadow that shrouded me, covering my body in an infinite well of bleakness. I watched us pass Versailles, its majestic wooded hills flashing across my vision; Mantes with its gothic architecture and cobbled villages; and Caen's paralleling Orne River that ran through the historically rich buildings. Each stop of the train at the railway stations made my heart lurch with barely withheld pain as my eyes followed loads of people piling out giddily and laughing as I was only brought farther from every kindness I ever knew. I pounded on the windows in my head at each person I saw through its cruel, transparent barrier, while on the outside I only died a little more as I made the glass fog with my breath until I could see them no longer.

Maybe the most unnerving part that I had come across through observing and listening, watching the three's mannerisms…

I had yet to meet the master.

**Part two awaits…**

**A/N: To clear up time, since Christine has had no concept of it for a while: She was taken at around 4:20 am, reached her captor's house at 4:40 am, remains there until 8am, and boards the train at 8:30 am. Currently in the story she just passed Caen, the last stop before Cherbourg. The whole trip would have taken around 10 hours, though the rest of her journey will come in part two! **

**Erik realized she was taken at around 4:35 am, and by the time he got to Nadir it was about 5:10 am. Not much action yet, though the chapters will speed up after the necessary explanations of the times in between! I promise.**

**Wow, a lot of info! Hope to hear from you! Who do you think her captors are? I'd love to hear your guesses...**


	7. Chapter 7

**I hope everyone had a nice thanksgiving!**

**Raoul**

**.**

**.**

"Should you not be tending to your," Erik paused and dramatically examined the sky, "_most _urgent obligations waiting in that large estate of yours?"

I followed his sight with my own of high annoyance to the golden glow that was dusting every tree, turning the snow a molten color. His slighted words almost missed my ears as I sought to unravel the mystery of this man's capricious mind.

One minute he would be completely unresponsive, trapped in some sort of self-constructed prison, and then the next, he would make these flippant comments that, from the looks of his companion, were quite regularly expected!

Immediately my muscles tensed in a vigorous contempt like winding coils as the venom from his words seeped into my muddled brain.

"I do not enjoy any of this more highly than you do. But, please," I was desperate now, "tell me what you know, for God's sake!"

He was mocking me! The brim had been filled in the department of emotional trials and barely-tamed panic. I was left with mere exasperation mingling with my continued fervor to save my poor fiancé— both of which threatened to send me right over the edge!

And to think all of _this_ started with an innocent patronage to an opera house— an unfeeling business deal.

I laughed quite suddenly.

A maniacal laugh that sounded with the trees, the glaring snow, and my unwanted shadow as I treaded behind my odd company— the villain and the Persian deep in hushed battle plans.

Was one meant to follow this animal and his foreign acquaintance like a bothersome toad forever? Of _course_, if it meant Christine would again be near and present!

Erik turned mid-breath from some elaborate usage detailing of arsenic to cut in just as suddenly as my blithesome burst of mirth, "Do you find anything funny, Vicomte?" His cloak trailed behind him on the snow in the same manner his words did— dark and with a dangerous calm. "Anything at _all_?"

Bothered greatly by the feeling of inferiority that flooded through my veins, I spoke back to his tightly wound, volatile composure.

"What I find _funny_," I spat, "is that I stand here, ripped from my previously occupied bed, to find that my _fiancé_ has gone missing, leaving me to trail behind my loathsome enemy and his suspicious friend like a whining child while we walk to some unknown destination! That, _dear Erik_, is a matter quite comical!"

Erik's eyes had narrowed when I drew out 'fiancé', however the Persian was already there with quick and forcibly boisterous words.

"Vicomte de Chagny, how rude of me not to introduce myself! You must excuse me, for you see I had been quite busy with my misunderstood friend here. My name is Nadir Khan; I frequent the opera often, though we have never formally met."

I glanced at his proffered, charcoal-gloved hand for a moment before warily taking it, trying to understand what game we were now playing as I stared into the jade depths of his wordless eyes. His shake was firm and warm compared to the icy cold front I had been so greatly trailing behind for the past hour, calming me a degree.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Khan"

A small piece of wood seemed to click into place in my mind as I felt this encounter unravel _some_ unwanted mystery. I now knew this man by name and would let that small decency float seamlessly into my plan to uncover the rest.

Erik muttered to Nadir in a melodic flow of insults, flicking his hand with an apparent look of betrayal.

"Yes," I mumbled beneath my breath, "I believe this will work quite nicely."

**Nadir**

**.**

**.**

"Erik, retain yourself! What is the meaning of this abhorrent behavior?"

Erik stared at me with barely withheld shock before knitting his eyebrows together as he chewed on my words, testing their taste.

In a quiet and circumstance-defying air of his usual feigned placidity, his low voice reverberated in my ear like a growl.

"This man, Nadir… He took everything from me. I do not wish him dead; I have already chided myself much too deeply for my faulty soul's desperate attempt at his demise. I wish him gone. Able to live his life peacefully, far away with a respectable air-filled wife."

The words were not a threat, though they held a certain tinge of bitterness— as if this all had finally ground the shield that contained his pent emotions, letting me see through the fast-closing cracks all that I could never have witnessed at the Populaire.

The air grew noticeably colder when he spoke again, letting me in farther before the door could again shut. "I let her go, Daroga." He was almost whispering now, "I finally _saw_ and let her go— the both of them."

Raoul was close behind from what I saw out of the corner of my eye, the hunched lines of his mouth and shoulders telling me that he was indeed listening. My home lay ahead wrapped behind the spiny trees that guarded our path, though bringing attention to this would indefinitely shatter the rare moment of sentimentality.

"And she came back." I looked at him suddenly, first wondering if this was a lie meant to wound Raoul; he must know he is right behind us.

A look at his wide eyes, trapped in their own sea of torture told me quite differently— the same look I had seen in Christine's as she emerged from the corridors with Raoul last night.

"Right after she left with him, I was prepared to die. I was already dead. But, she came back just to be taken into the night! After all I put her through…" His hands tightened on Cesar's reins. "We have to find her now." His voice was quite final, a well-thought demand hanging in the air as we walked on the ever-shortening dirt path perpendicular to rue de Rivoli.

Raoul was now seething behind us, the sound mixing with the rustling of the dead leaves in the wind, "You _lie_!"

Erik turned and stopped walking, the open door of vulnerability now shut tight in place with nailed hinges.

I wiped a gloved finger to my brow, swallowing my oncoming dread. We were _this close—_ this close to finishing the world's longest journey of a short mile and a half with the world's most unlikely trio without anyone first dying.

"She would never go back to you willingly. She _feared _you. _Hated _you. If she was in your presence at all last night it was because you took her into the shadows like a masked thief!"

Erik's eyes had turned a darker shade, an ice covering the storm-stricken sea as he grabbed the Vicomte's arm in an iron grip above the elbow.

I wanted to keep walking, reaching the warm home that waited with its red door and a steaming cup of tea.

"Oh, but I didn't Vicomte. She came on her own account, alone, running from the inn back towards the cellars of who she _feared._"

Raoul had turned an alarming shade of pale, his free hand creeping to his sheathed sword ever slowly.

The air seemed to still, as if it also knew from experience that intervening would only prove disastrous. I heard myself speak, however I did not remember forming the words. "Men, we can all settle this peacefully. We have almost reached—"

"You lie. You captured and lured her there with your demonic magic! No matter that you do not have her now." Raoul growled again, though this time slightly faltering, both men either ignoring my presence or actually—frighteningly—unaware.

Dear Allah, do not let these love-blind fools kill each other right in the snow! "Let us wait to spill blood until we enter my home, shall we?"

It was futile… I was now only amusing myself. The humble abode standing across the clearing of the woods had escaped the two, both oblivious to the fact that we had already reached the end of our light-hearted stroll.

"On second thought, I have just bought new carpeting."

Erik smiled at the now drawn sword, a cold and glimmering smile, and spoke very quietly. He was almost singing, the richness of his voice momentarily lulling the dread it evoked from its intended. "You both left at my command, unharmed and free. Why would I take her back?"

The sword that landed soundlessly on a bed of snow looked as if it had fallen from the heart of its owner. I swore under my breath as I watched Raoul hurry to grab it, a soldier in battle no matter the emotions he felt.

**Erik**

**.**

**.**

Nadir's home was small with a quite sad façade to an architect's mind, though the inside oozed of rich colors and Persia— an abundance of Persia. There were glass-blown vases full of blooming Persian Buttercups, rich in their color of wine and mauve; scarlet and gold tapestries draping softly from the ceiling, curtaining rooms in colorful shadows; and his feline friend that he managed to take with him from the foreign land.

A twinge of guilt shook me from the sight, not having seen it in quite some time. It was a man's nostalgic attempt to recreate an echo of his homeland—one, that my own friendship took him from.

I reclined stiffly in a throne-styled chair, meeting the crystal blue eyes of a now awake and glowering cat. It mewed its protest before prancing away to resume its nap elsewhere.

"And to think I was a likeable man!"

Raoul sniffed loudly from the far corner he stood in before bringing the cup of tea to his imperious mouth, conversing lightly with Nadir.

Oh, Nadir, why does that man always have to be so _civil_?

I had stopped myself with great effort back in those perfectly discreet woods, my feral interests never conversing much with morality being my reasoning behind such little control.

My fingers had itched to grab and wring Raoul's insolent neck and finish what had been left undealt until clarity had crept in, like the thief he so claimed me to be, reminding me that Christine would be quite disturbed to hear that her fiancé had died at the hands of her savior. Also, as pretentiously daft as he was, the boy had no reason to believe that Christine had come back to the opera house willingly.

The thought of seeing her slim, heavenly figure at all would astound oracles and gamblers alike had they been asked to foresee the chances.

Unwanted memories and images flooded into my mind, lethal to my waning focus as they submerged my clockwork mind in waters as murky as my lake.

The plan. I needed to _plan. _

Christine, an avenging angel standing at the bedside demanding all that she deserved…

Her trembling fingers and quivering knees as she fought against the soulless storm I had instilled in her…

Those eyes that spoke much more than words ever could decipher…

_Who did this to her?_

I grabbed my knees tensely, feeling my heart ripping from its withering cage.

The fault was mine to claim— I should never have left her. _I should never have done any of the deeds that led up to all of this._

The need to destroy had been my downfall, playing its hand at wiping clean all that was good and kind as the dagger of jealousy and blindness pierced my soul.

All I had learned from just _talking _to her…

My stomach clenched and I glanced back at my fair-haired enemy, his face pulled in distraught as he gripped a table side.

He was in no means going to leave any time soon.

Even if I must suppress every moment of murderous hate, tolerating the most horrid existence of Raoul during the infinite carpet of time that lay between Christine and my blackened, persistent soul…

I would endure it all. Enough time had passed at the hands of distractions and the mindless noise of my own hate-filled musings.

Fate would _not _prevail in its infernal games any longer.

"Come, both of you— we have methods to discuss."

**Christine**

**.**

**.**

The rumbling and screeching sounds of the train had grown habitual, a horrid melody to guide my sinking thoughts in their fall. Smells of cigar smoke filled my nose and every pore with a raspy, scraping fragrance as the voices around me seemed to blur to a whisper, an odd feeling pulling at the back of my head.

Someone was watching me. I could _feel _it.

I turned my view very slowly to the left, my nose tickling the netting on my hat, and peered behind Besnik and Nicolae's broad shoulders and oily hair to see a curious young man exactly one row behind me and diagonal on the left side of the aisle. He wore a brimmed black hat that shadowed golden hair curling back to  
the nape of his neck and a look of blatant interest as he sat turned away from his own company, only his chin angled to them as his brown eyes flicked up to meet my own with a peculiar stare.

My disappointment was unwarranted… as was any anticipation. Who did I _expect _it to be? This was no storybook ending. Solitude still surrounded me in a cape, whispering its taunts.

I was only an appealing silhouette to a delirious man bored on the endless ride, the falling sun adding a dash of boldness— nothing more

There were times that I would have grown excited over the interests of such a refined-looking gentleman at the opera. Meg and I would always pretend to pick out suitors, kneeling near the banisters and giggling behind our cascades of curls as we looked below at the oncoming hordes of the audience for that night's performance. Madame Giry would always find us with a scornful cluck of her tongue and scoot us away. The pastime had slowly waned when a certain man entered and forever altered my life.

_A certain angel…_

I turned away quickly and looked back through the frost in the window, breathing shallow little breaths as an onslaught of memories tried to rush their way under the barrier I had erected around my mind.

An idea struck slowly through the cloud of helplessness, demanding its trial.

My three captors remained engrossed in their gambling games and I met the boy's eyes again, this time forcing a coy smile.

He tilted his lips slowly in reply and brought his head down in greeting, his hat shadowing elegant features in the movement.

A gulp of breath aided me as I slowly brought my finger to my lips, my eyes now solemnly staring into his own.

Yoska snapped his gaze up from his hand of cards and studied me while I pretended to adjust the netting of my hat, finishing my gesture of silence to the boy only when I was no longer being watched by suspicion.

Upon the unspoken question on the gentleman's frowning lips I gestured my head ever so slightly and softly towards my acquaintances. He nodded once and I turned again to the window, certain he was still watching.

I drew quietly on the area behind my head and away from view of my captors, should they have looked, with the tip of my finger on the silky ice.

This was it— a way that I might finally be able to contact someone.

Only having carved out the letters 'H', 'E', and 'L', Besnik's arm wrapped itself around the bottom of my back, sending a repulsive chill up my spine. He dug his fingers into the side of my waist, pushing hard against to bone of my hip, and I grit my teeth to stop the small cry that had tried to escape. He released his bruising hold right after I let my hand drop back down to my side. "You mustn't draw on the windows, dear! You wouldn't want to leave oils from your fingers, would you?"

He laughed lightly and I felt revulsion pinch in my stomach tightly, his hand worming back to his cards.

A look in his eyes, almost feral in its wordless threat, drew out a statement of my own.

"You're right," I croaked, holding a hand over my throbbing hip, "I was not thinking."

A satisfied smile lingered by my ear as I turned back to the window, seeing also a flash of what could only be pity in the eyes of the nameless girl.

The frost cleared with a slow wipe of my sleeve and I again glued my eyes to the passing sights, watching darkness begin to cloak every tree and outline the clouds with my head leaning on the icy glass.

A complaining lady behind me mumbled about the time, the words just barely catching my apprehensive ears.

"It is already 6pm… we've been on this train for nearly ten hours already!"

_6pm…_

_10 hours away from the dormitory and my little white bed beside Meg's… or the smell of fresh bread greeting my nose each morning… the mysterious energy in the air of the opera house which would never fail to enter my dreams… away from every small detail I grew to expect each day._

The remainder of the ride passed in my continued silence as the string that held me to all I loved strained tighter and tighter.

**Erik**

**.**

**.**

I did feel a modicum of guilt at the fact that Raoul stood with an incomplete tale boiling in his mind— Christine had only come for answers— though, the rush of satisfaction trumped. I would tell him eventually… after he had time to let his imagination fester cruelly until it had spewed its infinite possibilities…

The look on his face so mirrored what I had felt behind the statue of the winged horse on that snowy roof, watching him and Christine sing words of love… when she had approached me in wonderment at the Bal Masque with her own look of endearment before giving me the perfect view of a cold band of metal resting on a chain, or when his command to deceive echoed through Christine's shaking hand that had torn off my mask onstage. He deserved to feel betrayed, if only for a little while.

That ring… she had given it back to me. Any logic of why escaped me dearly, though I kept it now in an inner pocket on my vest, right above my adrenaline-thumping heart.

It was 7:40 am and the train station shone with morning sun upon the blinding white of snow. Nadir had found a train scheduled to leave at eight to Tourlaville, on the outskirts of Cherbourg. From there we would catch the first steamship available to reach America.

Raoul sat on a bench abruptly, his tawny hair brushing forward into his face so only the white air of jagged breath was visible.

A smirk wickedly tugged at the side of my mouth and, with a twist on my heel, I walked toward where groups of people stood and waited for the next ship.

My left side faced them all while the right remained hidden under the shadow of my hat as I stood on the fringes of the crowd, circling slowly and repeatedly going through the crafted plan in my head to stay focused, the minutes passing painfully slow. The mask I wore was meant for night. Though the color almost matched my skin, the cream gleam it gives in light would only escape a fool. Paranoia crept in and I eyed every person as if they were hunting me, looking for my deformity, or seeing through my attire to the scars beneath. Breathing became jagged and the initial purpose of finding Nadir began to less important and all the more threatening.

The people jeered and laughed, every smiling face and shout making my shoulders flinch inwardly, as I had done as the boy in the cage. No one was even looking in my direction, but their images swirled like a carousel around me until I felt myself sink to the wet cobbled stones that turned to a dirt floor in my mind as the weight of their prying eyes dragged me down. I felt Javert cackle in my ear and beat me senseless with a rod until I no longer knew if I actually belonged to that throbbing body. Oh, how they would scream when he ripped the rough burlap from my face…

My mind flew back to reality when I felt a tap on my tight shoulder, discovering that it was only Nadir telling me that the train was ready to board. The world around me was back to its white, cold, and distant image as opposed to the dark, rusting cage outlined by a dirt red carnival tent that had felt so real… My looming shadow— one that had _not _crouched to the floor as I so realistically imagined— followed me as I pulled my fedora farther over the right side of my face, slinking to the end of the crowd piling onto the train and into their shadows.

No matter that this was a remote area of Paris; I was a wanted man and the white of the glaring snow seemed hell-bent on revealing me to anyone that had already heard the news— or even attended the opera itself when I sent the chandelier crashing and swept away their songbird after having my abhorrent face put on show.

_Christine…_

Nadir furtively slipped a bag of francs to the conductor while Raoul stopped himself just before he could give his usual noble nod as he met my disapproving stare. We had made him change into plainer clothes and also gave him a hat to shadow his face, though the Vicomte would be recognized quite easily in our barely clandestine group: the masked fugitive, the blatant foreigner, and the titled and sociable patron to Paris' Opera house.

We needed to make it out of France unnoticed or the plan would crumble and blow away with the wind taking Christine's safety along with it.

Every detail we wore of our plain and gray clothes was meant to keep us insignificant, to artistically draw someone's eyes away and towards vibrancy.

….

Ten hours later, after a stiff and suffocating trip spent by keeping my head at a precarious angle from all public, a trip where I _willed _the train to reach its destination even faster, it was 6 pm and we had reached Tourlaville.

….

The sea air tickled my nose as the water lapped in the darkness on the port's docks, my mask feeling slick against my face in the wet, cold air.

I breathed heavily at the lazily crashing waves, staring into the distance that blurred the sky and ocean into oblivion.

Was she somewhere on these dark waters?

The prospect of her trapped at sea, the voyage never-ending like her falling hopes of any savior…

This trans-Atlantic trip would take a week at _least_.

A _week _of her oblivious to our rescue.

The dark was comforting, the sun's slip into the earth calming my breaths with each shade of dimming grey into its painted indigo.

Amidst the dark symphony around me I bent down to sit on a mossy bench, losing myself in the white noise of lover's reluctant farewells… of children clinging to a father's leg, or hiding their tears in their mother's skirts.

Handkerchiefs were thrown while merry hollers of safe travels mixed with the cacophony of sounds from the deep, rumbling of the ship's horn and stamping of feet on the loading dock.

_Loved ones…_

The hole in my heart pulled, urging me to peer into it and remember who I was. Many emotions were felt for me: strange bouts of beguilement towards my created mystery, fear, hatred, pity, grudging respect, curiosity… never love.

The strong lure of that one forbidden feeling, one that I will never deserve, had been filled with life by the breath of an angel— a cruel temptress of an angel. With Christine, I had experienced a taste of sensations I never thought possible, ones I believed I had to manipulate to receive. Fleeting moments of true reciprocation had struck me dumb— whisperings of confused words in the chapel, the look of longing at the Bal Masque, the passion she displayed in my opera, her kiss, the ring she gave back, those strange moments of hesitation, her innocent return to me, those moments she cried over why everything had gone wrong… it was all there to toy with my mind in her wicked games, spinning with the hate and betrayal so blatant to all who witnessed!

Should love be so cunning and cruel to escape those unwilling to even fathom the thought?

It could only be pity and regret dressed in their finest silken hope leading me to the center of a bridge where they had already ruthlessly unhinged the boards. I would never know, for that was the point of the two's deceit.

That hope was the evil force that causes one to lay awake making sense of scattered evidence, leaving them to flounder until they finally do fall into the darkness of reality

Though, all she had said last night in my shadowy caves...

Deceitful love or cushioned hatred— it did not matter. Not even death would silence my need to protect her.

The warning shot of a gun announcing soon departure rattled me to awareness. I looked up hastily, but remembered that England was that ship's destination.

Nadir, moving to sit by me on the bench, spoke in his gentle accent and pushed through my dismal mood like water, always somewhat prone to knowing my moods, "We will find your Christine. I promise you that just as I had vowed to leave France with you."

"Daroga, how on _Earth_ have you put up with me all of these years?"

He stroked his chin before leaving his hand there, his eyes smiling on a serious face, "patience— a quality which you do not possess."

"I am a very patient man!" I scowled back to his smirk before the echo of my own words shot forward.

_Try my patience… make your choice._

"Then, oh patient Erik, you will not mind waiting three hours for the next ship to arrive at nine?"

My head snapped forward as the thought of three hours settled in my mind on top of the nightmare that had re-formed. Three hours… much can happen in three hours.

"Yes. I mind— to hell with patience." Nadir chuckled before spreading his hands in surrender.

"There _is _another port nearby… Cherbourg. If we find a carriage and take it West along the coast we could reach it in about a half hour. With its ideal location in the bowl of the peninsula, ships pour out by the hour. We should have better luck there."

"_Luck. _Luck is the guest late to this dinner party, is he not? Him and his friend, timing, are quite horrid in social etiquette." I hissed between my teeth before closing my eyes, willing the anger to drain from my veins. "Tell me, did you memorize a map of France for fun?"

"One_ does_ have to kill time somehow between each of your antics, my friend."

After glaring at a bothersome Persian, I leapt up with new fervor to outwit fate and patted my arsenal of a cloak.

"Where are you going?" Raoul questioned with a tinge of annoyance.

I countered tersely, wishing to rid myself of this burden with my continued vagueness, "To another port. Feel free to leisurely wait the three hours for this ship."

He grimaced, his features angular in the dark as he stared onto the empty sea in contemplation.

My eye caught movement behind on the street and I turned just in time to see a gentleman helping a woman out of a black carriage. They walked away, though the stagecoach remained leaning against the steps, pulling a glinting flask from his vest.

The Vicomte stood still in defiance while Nadir, having caught my stare, and I strode with purpose to the brougham's beckoning invite.

The plump man looked up, his eyes widening in expected shock to see my mask. Any words of reserve or reluctance about the trouble he would meet from veering away from his paying customer fell off his lips as I slapped a generously-sized amount of francs into his thick, grimy palm. Nadir and I piled into the dark interior, the window giving me a perfect view of Raoul's flash of fear as I closed the door.

He glared at me with shadowed eyes before he rushed over, the green of them flicking down to the steps of the carriage he climbed.

"Bring us to the port at Cherbourg," Nadir called to the driver.

Raoul's unmarred face abruptly struck a chord as I watched from the dark, throwing his roll into my mess of musings— those arms holding Christine tight on the roof, his lips claiming hers, his gentle words poisoning her mind, his martyred pleas for her to let him die rather than marry a monster.

My stare bore harshly at his silhouetted figure, a sour taste filling my throat in disgust as I watched him pull open the door to step in. Turning my voice down low in his ear, I leaned forward and growled my threat, "Keep in mind that there will be no one to reach you should you die on this journey. Do _not _cross me." Simple words, though they held their weight.

**Christine**

**.**

**.**

The sea was cool and unaware, crashing in its own rhythmic sway as hovering people above threw their romance to hide the solemnity of long travels and absences like velvet over rough rocks.

The intense massiveness of the steamship stared me down like a scolded child, shrinking me to a speck of dust beneath the gleam of its thick, turning wheels as it remained solid against the angry thrashes of frosted waves. Seamen bustled about, tending to the passenger's baggage, and earnestly calling out sea terms that grew lost in the roaring wind.

To a first-timer, the spectacle of lights, sounds, and complete and utter looming vastness was mind-halting— a passing distraction. I _had_ traveled by sea as a young girl from Sweden to Germany with my father, though the foggy memory was missing pieces from the destruction of time. To face nose-to-nose with a ship of this style and imposing stature amidst the deafening raucous of the public was both exciting and very frightening!

I stood very still on the loading dock while closing my eyes and breathing in the salty tang of the air as an icy wind blew through the thin material of the day dress, my chin raising up to the starry sky. The wrap I had been given might as well have been made of frost for all of the warmth it provided, merely trapping the cold beneath its rough material. Though, I should be grateful that my captors hadn't carted me around in a cargo box or whatever other burden-free accommodation they wished to from the looks of their annoyed faces.

_What was waiting in America?_

This winter was bitter, the turbulent emotions of it matching my own in its quarry with all it encountered. My teeth chattered as if being summoned from my very thoughts, my entire body in vicious protest. How much could I endure before my health suffered?

One who boarded at an opera house… well they would very rarely leave the warm confinement of the interior, colors of gold and red swirling inside while a blue winter bounced harmlessly off of the stone façade.

….

Once on the deck of the steamship, like a bitter tonic to my mind, I _felt _love around me: the poignant farewells, wives putting up brave fronts as their loved ones left the dock, friends merrily exchanging pleasantries, passionate promises, solemn embraces…

My lips trembled, having nothing to do with the chill.

Yoska was fingering a tarnished pocket watch, flipping the cover open and then back to close with a click, and I tentatively turned towards him and spoke in a scratchy voice, my throat sore from the wind, "What time is it?"

He peered at me for a moment before answering. "It is 6:50. Expecting someone?" The laugh that followed was cruel, echoed by Nicolae and Besnik.

A gun shot sounded at the end of their mirth and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

The gypsy girl wandered closer to my side, "I was told it means the ship is leaving." She tucked her hair behind her ear and gripped the railing to stare into the green water under the glow of the ship's bright lanterns.

_Leaving._

My eyes went frantic as I too gripped the cold railing, a mocking allusion to when I had done so on the inn's balcony when my only worry was for answers, and searched the hordes of people on the docks.

Nameless faces, painted lips, tear-stained cheeks, shadowed silhouettes, the orbs of the lanterns on posts revealing hats and cloaks and a glint of a mask…

The noise around me silenced in my mind as my knees weakened and my eyes widened, curls of my hair burning them as they whipped out of their chignon from the wind.

Was I dreaming?

A figure tall and strong stalked with lethal grace through the walls of the crowd, unnatural and donning a dark cloak that crowned each of his movements.

But, was it real? Surely hope and fatigue were to blame!

A deep horn blared, cutting through my ears.

I shook my head and looked back, the man now gone.

_What a fool I was, a child wishing for a cure to her nightmare. _

My gaze swept back to the docks, scornful towards the deceiving dark playing with my mind, and was caught by the piercing wander of two unmistakable blue eyes and raven black hair glistening under the wavering light of the posts and moon; he was much closer than before.

_Erik _was closer.

How did he— I was so far from Paris. How could he have possibly known where I would be!

A mirage… it was a mocking mirage spurred by my dread to leave France— must be!

I squeezed my eyes tight, wishing the cruel hope away.

A black-gloved hand, a slow and pacing stride, the curl of a lip in deep thought… all were brought to mind-startling clarity as a rich and very low voice broke through the garish sounds and whispered to my ears in the wind, forcing my eyes to open and look. The words were lost, but the sound grew and cut through the air like a knife as he strode closer to the edge of the docks, away from a foreign-looking man and to a more desolate area… and much closer to the area of the ship's railing I held onto with my life.

I opened my mouth to yell, but the roaring sounds around me were deafening along with the vicious bodies hovering near my back, their presence felt like a touch of silencing fingers- ones I could not pry away.

What if the touch became tangible, whisking me from the deck before he could see me?

He needed to see me!

I lifted my hand up to the netting on my hat and moved it away to reveal my face fully in what I hoped was a natural movement to those behind me, my eyes never leaving Erik's passing gaze. He was searching.

_Erik _was searching! A knot unwound in my stomach as I thought the words, a burst that slightly mollified my dread... even if only for a little while.

He had found me here, but America... America is a land more vast and unknown than the depths of the ocean beneath this steamship.

_Look at me, _Erik. _Dear God, _look at me!

Without warning, he went rigid as his eyes finally locked on mine.

Tears streamed down my cheeks in release towards the sadness I had been swallowing, his image seen like a swirling reflection through the water that pooled in my eyes.

My feet tried to move forward as the sobs became more wrenching, my fingers gripping the railing tighter in punishment towards the jail that prevented me from reaching dry ground.

Erik nodded his head earnestly and softly, a fiercely determined look settling over his features.

Fingers enclosed on my wrist tightly and swiftly, bringing into awareness for the first time the girth that spread steadily between the wooden docks and the ship. Water rippled in angry currents as the crowds jostled around me and drank, sang, retired to a dining hall, completely _oblivious _in their regularity.

I did not try to rake my hand away, only shrunk deeper into my mind as I let the night blur all except for twin, pained eyes, horribly dangerous even as the ship drew farther and farther away.


	8. Chapter 8

**I would like to formally apologize for the wait for this chapter! I had all the intentions of finishing it much earlier than usual, but then my computer so sweetly decided to obtain a virus that prevented me from using it for more than five minutes without it needing to turn off… But, enough of my hopelessness with technology. It's late, it's late, but here I give you chapter 8. *curtain rises***

**Erik**

**.**

**.**

"Daroga, were we supposed to be on this ship? It is going to America."

The landing stages were being dragged into place, locking every passenger onto the steam's lower deck as I walked swiftly through the crowd with Nadir.

"No," he breathed as he fought to keep up, "we never would have made it here in time to bribe our way on board. It is only 6:50, another ship is due to arrive soon after this one departs from what I checked on that board. Apparently all of Europe wishes to reach America!"

The night was kind to my mask so long as I stayed away from the glow of the lamps, though the only sure darkness paved for me was in the comforting unlit corridors back at the opera house. It was imminent to weave in and out of this light no matter my paranoia, passing prying people and a particularly long glance from a man sitting on a bench.

My steps were soundless as they drew to the edge of the cobbled landing and halted, peering at the steps leading down to a large dock below where onlookers practically glued themselves to the side of the ship as they said their farewells. Moonlight glinted off of that glossy surface of the ship, wrapping around its exterior while the glow of its equally-spaced lamp lights threw a warm orange color against the royal blue of the evening sky. The ship was quite masterfully crafted with three levels of decks and I inspected each crevice and railing, curiously inching down the few steps, the soft music playing to entertain streaming into my ear. I nodded sideways towards Nadir in vague acknowledgement, distracted fully by the strange painting I stood in of indigo, orange, and white while also subconsciously imagining what instruments I would use to duplicate the melancholy and fervor of the scene around me. The ship's horn accompanied with erupting trumpets, the wind mimicked with harps, frantic steps becoming the eager slide of a bow on violin strings, an organ's chords portraying the controversy of dreading anticipation hovering in the air, the warning shot now heard around me coming to life with a bang of a drum and the lingering clap of cymbals…

Life's _most _favorite irony seemed to be showing my mind beauty before any other emotion could settle on top of the enthrallment, displaying all I could cherish and share if I had been born normal and untainted. Nadir's presence hung next to me, his companionship unhelpfully crowding my dismal thoughts with its persistence to keep me away from damaging my soul or whatever else he feared was running through my mind. My fingers clenched a cold railing and I dismissed him and his compassionate motives with a small wave of a gloved hand. For once, I needed to be alone.

"I would go find the Vicomte if I were you. He has most likely found his reflection in the water and decided to stay back and admire it. I fear he might have fallen in." My voice was dry as I glanced back at him, the sarcasm running off of my tongue with all the familiarity of a river's ingrained path.

Nadir sighed and shook his head, walking off to find Raoul— wherever that boy was— and leaving me to my own agenda of distractions. Now on the main dock, the exposed feeling had returned and I pulled the hat farther down on the right side. I needed to be alone, away from the normal noise of normal lives.

My head hastily whipped to my left and saw another path sprouting from this hub of activity, this one barely lit and entirely beckoning.

It was a jutting dock that hugged the side of the landing's wall in its descent, a few men smoking and conversing on the first couple planks, but far too rotten or faulty for the weak-hearted to walk down the entirety when the rush of ice waters beneath their feet sprayed a threatening mist between the boards. No matter, I walked over the dingy warning rope and right down to the edge of it, content with my sadly comforting solitude like a rat scurrying to darkness.

The warm opera house had neglected to spread its glow to my dark corridors attached just as now, the lights stopping where no one else dare go.

Particularly rough waves lapped at my shoes, but I remained still and let my gaze wander outwards over the lingerers by the railing that trimmed the edge of the lowest deck. These were the ones staying out in the cold to watch the sights. They were too far away, even for my sight that saw night better than day. I glanced around me at the dark waters and isolation once more, as if fulfilling some inbred need in my soul, before beginning the trek back up the creaking wooden path, my eyes never leaving those onboard.

Among the foolish was a man standing and smiling lovingly to the wide and crowded dock that was growing closer with each of my steps, though more than one woman dabbed a tear from their eye before clutching the handkerchief to their hearts. A bitter laugh pitched itself in my throat as I pictured those wretched girls crying with the callous cloth under a pillow as they waited for their virtuous gentleman to come back to them. At the rails was also a small group of older men gazing at the stars, presumably pointing out constellations with the bursts of excitement from their aged fingers.

A child glanced at me from the dock and I turned away quickly, melding into the shadows on the cemented wall by my side. Once no longer noticed, I continued to creep up and closer to the ship.

On the side of the ship nearest to where I stood, there were only several women at the metal railing; most must have been too weak to stand the cold much longer or too dutiful to stray from an impatient husband.

The two nearest me were closer now as my steps inched nearer to population. Curious boredom factored my gaze's mechanical scrutiny, sweeping the ship for anything to chase my mind's perilous descent during my walk's ascent. The dark dock connected back to the populated pier and I squinted as glowing lights sprayed into my vision. With a swivel onto it, my feet scaled the edge, arms and dresses brushing my sleeve, one misstep away from dropping into the rolling ocean below. My eyes never left the ship; I needed to be closer.

One of the two… she was clutching the railing as she faced me. In fact, her knuckles were quite white against the black of the sky. She wore a hat with netting that covered almost her entire face, though I unnervingly felt her stare through it. My finger twitched against the silk grey folds of the cummerbund around my waist. The other girl was looking out at the dark waters, only showing her profile as she stood away from the hovering, distorted shadows that bustled about behind the other passengers on the fringes of the deck. She wore the attire of a gypsy, plain, though not unlike some costume designs I had drawn for Aminta. A chord in my heart yanked itself tight and I looked away quickly. The elderly gentlemen and their old bones retired to the interior of the ship. The well-dressed man was pulled inside by a friend and away from his many female lovers as well.

_Distractions. I was distracting myself._

The one woman facing me pulled the net away from her face, drawing my eyes back to her from the movement of her pale hand against a dark sky.

_One small movement._

Water seemed to flood from below from the sudden lack of a solid dock beneath my feet, my stomach giving the cruelest of aches.

Questions erupted as did any logic or reason as to how this coincidence was created— a cruelty or a blessing… I could not decipher. Perhaps, it was both.

My entire body went as rigid as stone, each muscle locking into place, while one name reverberated around my skull, dizzying as the world around me finally flooded back into focus like a rush of cold water behind my eyes.

_Christine._

_To see her, a blessing to a damned man._

The moon glinted off each of her features; the bend of the dress at her waist, the sleeve at her elbow below a thin wrap, the curve of her lips. She was shivering violently.

_A cruelty that I could not reach her… so close and I could not reach her._

Her eyes bore into mine as glistening tears slid down her cheeks, her mouth parted in anguish— the brown eyes and pink mouth I had thought never to see again.

_She is alive… alive and unharmed._

She leaned forward— _Christine_ leaned forward— her face appearing both pained and relieved at the sight of me. My heart lurched at the perception of her showing such broken emotion until a knot was tied in my throat. Her body was a book and the many words spoke of agony.

_She may not have been harmed physically—_

But, what of her reaction towards seeing me? My presence was rarely cherished. Why would it evoke any feelings in her at all?

_Are you only thankful that someone knows where you are, Christine? Grateful that now I can send word to your precious fiancé to come and find you?_

Of course she was. _Relief_? After all that I had done to her, relief could never be logically attributed as an emotion towards me.

The Opera Ghost destroyed while the humble patron salvaged.

_Why_ did I leave her alone? She could have found Antoinette with me, safe by my side where I could have protected her.

_My finger sliding along her cheek, the warmth that left the air as I began to walk away from her, footsteps echoing, my mindless and completely senseless wander around the entirety of the opera house…_

The ship spurred to life, the sound far away and distant as I kept my eyes on a pair as black as midnight under the night sky, my throat impossibly tight. Her shaking frame, the curve of her shoulders were all seen blurred around the eyes I focused on, her gaze cutting into me as painful as her beauty…

Who knew that ghost could be so readily battered down by just the sheer sight of Christine Daae?

She needed hope—reassurance. I _would_ reach her and she needed to know that. Hell, that look she gave was enough to wipe my mind of any of its usual calculating tactics, the ones I would be using at current to figure how to get onto that damned ship.

I was left contentedly trapped in that helpless stare, coveting the sight of her looking back at me without fear or pity or hatred. It was a look of utter need and distress and, no matter the betrayed past or the hopeless future, I would save her as if I were her sole reliant in the matter.

She would not suffer in the drowning pool of impotence— not if I had any hand in the matter.

My head nodded— though it at first was to confirm my own resolve—towards Christine, projecting every soundless promise towards her past the howling wind, the deafening noise, and the gap of water between the ship and the docks that had begun to widen slowly.

Only once did the relieved rise and fall of her shoulders occur before I moved my eyes slightly to watch a shadow of a hand wind itself roughly around her thin wrist. The day's harrowing events were raw and I honed in on the man emerging from the shadows with murderous eyes, taking in his large form with grasping vigor as he peered over Christine's shoulder and broke into the sphere of a lamp's dull glow.

_Where else had those hands gone?_

Christine's speculation was felt like needles though I was tracing the outline of the man with my own, my fingers touching the rope in my cloak. He melted back into the shadows and released her arm, the view of him fleeting and lacking far too much in clarity for any identifiable characteristics.

It was strange, staring at the one you loved drifting away into the starry night full of perils unknown as you could only stand and watch.

It was strange to have the woman who should fear you, no matter her claims _one_ wistful night ago, seem to beg for you to reach her.

It was strange to be replaced as the monster by a shadow… one whose vague features seemed to stare for far too long.

Steel hardened my veins as the scarlet red of blood filled my vision. I would kill anyone who stood in my way, mowing down thousands to reach the one human capable of saving me. The simplicity of that statement brought me back to a time where my train of thought had been parallel to this one— a time in a cellar where I planned to rule my kingdom and obtain my queen. A game of love and jealousy, though this one, of life and death, was far more lethal.

My eyes returned from the dark place they had disappeared to as they focused again on Christine's unwavering and completely capturing stare.

I watched the stars in her glinting eyes as the ship sailed on, thinking how unfortunate one would be to ever lay a hand on _my Christine._

Just saying her name in my head scratched away the part of the black that imprisoned my mind, drawing out sweet clarity along with my thoughts from the deep abyss of self-hatred they seemed to always bury themselves in. She would be my redemption. No one would touch that. As long as Christine Daae lived, my soul would.

A spot in the distance was all that remained of the ship, the onlookers having already trailed back up the steps to the landing and the town beyond, and I stood in a dangerous, darkening silence.

**Raoul**

**.**

**.**

The little beach was only a short walk down a hill next to the landing. I had not been able to stand the presence of Erik any longer after what I had learned about last night, slipping away silently to find my own area to think. Small sailboats docked here, though they swayed lifelessly with the lap of the waves. I was alone.

My shoe sawed against the jagged, splintered dock as I kicked at its edge, peering into waters as black and reflecting as obsidian. Light played on the slow waves in distorted swirls, the stars dotting the blanket of mirrors in this area of a lower tide, the sheet of it softly billowing, an odd otherworld of the sky painted on the surface of the sea. Distant sounds of hoots and horns lazily reached my ears, but where I stood every sound seemed as if it were submerged in liquid— garbled and odd. A steamship in the far distance drifted towards the docks like a moth to light, though nothing disturbed the waters where I stood. The only rocks or ice or noises were those in my turning mind.

Why was I here?

Christine left. _Left_ as if running into the winter night was a more pleasant option than to stay in the safe inn with her fiancé. I scoffed, kicking a spray of broken shells into the water. _Fiancé_. Did that word even have any levity? Or, perhaps it was only a title— one with all the emotion of monsieur or mademoiselle.

She was _safe _with me and my many plans on how we could spend the rest of our life _safe. _The man in the shadows that had haunted her sleepless nights, restless dreams, mirthless eyes… He would be far away, and we would start anew.

But, she ran back to that murdering man— the one she despised. The one who manipulated and terrorized an entire opera house.

The one she kissed as if she were dying.

A piercing pain entered my temples and I winced, walking the couple steps off of the dock to sit on a rusted bench.

_Safe. _

Were any of us safe? The world hides all kinds of surprises to ambush us at the moments we feel most secure.

_Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing. _

Once, on a particularly cold night at my family's estate, only a few weeks after the disaster at Il Muto, I had found Christine on one of the window's balconies. She only wore a thin day dress and her hair whipped in an icy wind that drafted over to where I stood. A distant look had etched itself into every line of her from the moment I took her with me away from the dangers of the Populaire. It would appear most prominent when she thought no one was looking, though even in her happiest moments something had been different. After a week, she would rarely smile and, when she would, it would be strained and polite. There was something changed in her eyes… colder. So, I stood quietly and watched her at that balcony. Suddenly, she had turned to the side, still unaware of my presence, looking at the lights beyond from a different view. Her eyes had then closed and a smile lit up her features as she leaned her face in the wind. Her arms then had wrapped around her body in a little embrace, though she did not shiver from the air. Growing uncomfortable, I had lightly tapped on the open window, clearing my throat.

_Lotte, you are going to catch your death. I can have someone bring you tea after you come back in._

She had opened her eyes quickly, the smile fading and her arms falling. The strange look had returned in her eyes.

If any realization was met, it was that the smile was not reserved for any thought of me.

The next morning I had asked if she would like to return to live at the opera, waiting for her reaction. A letter from Firmin had assured me that there had been no more sign of the Phantom.

The light had returned to her eyes like a soul rejoining its body.

My observations were small, but I searched for them. I do not believe even she knew how cold she had appeared to my family during her stay.

Of course, their disdain for her had only grown, leaving me to answer to endless complaints about the shifty and unladylike behavior of actresses while declining infinite suggestions of _suitable _girls for the de Chagny name.

_My family…_

As their image swelled in my head, I felt myself turn a shade paler. They would be looking for me and Christine having read in the papers the headlining news of the great fire at the Populaire. Quite loudly.

My God.

With haste I walked back to the landing and searched for someone, anyone, writing with parchment perhaps, or even a store nearby.

_Who brought parchment and ink to the sea at night?_

They would search everywhere with gendarme as discreet as a stomping elephant, ruining the plans my own enemy had made and sliding my head through a noose's loop once more. Erik had been very adamant that no contact was to be made with others until we had left France. Though the words were generally spoken, they had pierced my ear with deliberation. But, I was not certain he would care to hear of a de Chagny-led search.

Other than writing to keep our journey under a curtain for obvious safety and time reasons, I needed to assure my family that I was well. That Christine was well. There was nothing they despised more, other than what my father called my 'disgraceful' taste in women, was our name in the public's eye for reasons they deemed an embarrassment or a scandal. Our name would be laced with Christine's abduction should it be discovered. Gossip circled quickly through the opera house and then out onto the Parisian streets like clockwork. All they would see was a missing phantom and disappearing soprano.

The hysteric shrill of a laugh burst from my throat.

The ways to twist that to the nearest newspaper looking for a scandal were infinite. My father would find it an atrocity that all of Paris would know I was engaged to someone who lived in a world where such filthy crimes were common, not that her life was on the line. He was an honorable and compassionate man, but pride was his sustenance— the air he breathed.

I understood the need for furtiveness. It was imperative to reach them and put out the fire before it could blaze. Come up with a reason to delay the wedding… which was only a month away. Their concern over my absence would be made public, for our involvement in matters held all the subtlety of the color red.

Finally, after turning and searching through circling colors, two children moved aside to reveal a bench on the landing where a man sat, writing on his lap with one leg lain casually on his knee to rest his parchment on.

I glanced around, making sure neither Nadir nor Erik lurked close by, and then approached the man. Pulling a small pouch of francs from my vest—some that I had taken from Nadir's luggage lest the moment arises when I would find myself abandoned in a foreign country, the chances of which being quite probable— I explained my predicament and asked if he might be able to send a letter for me. The man was kind and let me use his materials. The letter was short, assuring my family that I was only taking Christine out of France for a while to see the sights and get her mind off of all that had recently entailed in the Populaire.

We would be back before the wedding, I had written.

Folding it neatly and swiftly, I handed the lone writer the money and letter, thanking him dearly, and standing up. "The de Chagny estate," he mused with a small smile, staring at the address on the front of the fold before boldly giving the contents a once-over, "a large address for a common fellow such as yourself." I gave him a peculiar stare, as if not understanding, though I knew it was transparent. He chuckled at my expression while staring at my plain attire.

"Monsieur," my voice came out forced; what business did he have in reading a private letter? Though, I suppose the arrangement was rather un-businesslike to start. "_Monsieur_, please, you must not tell anyone of my whereabouts."

Time was ticking. The ship was docking. One of the two would come and find me soon.

"You mustn't worry, Vicomte." He spoke with a teasing exasperation and my ears cringed at the volume he spoke my title. Too many people were near to catch it. "I am but a bored and curious old man, searching for the interesting and the strange. Why do you think I write at this port? You would be surprised to hear all I have witnessed."

I nodded my head, uncomfortable with the way he spoke, his eyes glinting with knowledge.

"Excuse my asking, but have we met before?"

"Ah, I do not believe we have. But, you have met my brother… Monsieur Lefevre. Let me say, he has told me many intriguing stories since his retirement; ones whose most interesting scandals have walked by this very bench."

_Scandals? _I moved back to sit on the bench and leaned toward him.

"Tell me what you have seen."

"I saw a lady in a dress, her face partly covered by a netted hat, though it blew to the side for a moment and a face was revealed with as much beauty as I had remembered seeing when visiting the Opera Populaire after my brother's retirement. I saw a man in evening attire beneath a cloak, avoiding contact with anyone and everyone, one side of his face glinting slightly when he turned at _just_ the right angle. Now, I see you." He leaned forward at this, his voice alive and grandiose as if telling a compelling story. In fact, the mysterious tone of it reminded me very much of the way Christine's father would sound when he told us dark tales at the little house by the sea, the tang of the ocean air the same taste on my tongue as here and the moon out and just as bright. Though this story I would very much like to escape from.

"What do you— you mean to tell me that you saw Christine Daae? Are you certain it was her?"

"Quite certain, Vicomte." A look at my face turned his eyes to a more serious squint. "She is quite well, especially considering the circumstances."

"The circumstances… I do not understand, Monsieur." How would he know anything?

"I am old, but capable of knowing a dire situation from an innocent one. Why else would the famed Phantom, who my brother so peculiarly described, have left his hidden cellars? What else could have brought either of you to the ports of Cherbourg alone, or bring Miss Daae to the exact same place with the company of foreign men ushering her onto a ship? I am observant."

_Foreigners? _

"Though, at the time I only thought it to be a curious way of an actress, escaping life onstage to see the world. Once her suitor and the Opera Ghost made their way through these crowds, I feared what I had previously found cleanhanded was nothing of the sort. I will send your letter and tell no one of it."

My mind had begun racing long ago, any and all of this man's words missing my ears. She had been here… and then had left the country only minutes before we arrived.

I thanked the man again, inexplicably trusting that he would keep the secret. On boneless legs I stood having heard the impatient horn of the ship. Its exterior loomed like a sea monster in the darkness.

"Raoul!"

Turning, I saw Nadir stride towards me, his astrakhan cap slightly askew and an annoyed look pulling at his brow.

"There you are." He glanced intently at the man on the bench for a few seconds before turning back to me. "Come on."

**Erik **

**.**

**.**

Retreating into the shadows, as I was inclined to already do, I let my ears pull out what they wanted to hear like one might do when focusing on the melody of a certain instrument while an entire orchestra is playing. Most of these people had been on Christine's train; the station was a mere walking distance away from the ports. They may know something— may be useful for anything other than providing an annoying, far from melodic, buzz in my ear. There was talk of the current politics in America, senseless banter between husband and wife, high-pitched bursts of laughter from running children, arguments over what to see first, and then—

A man appearing around my age with hair of a dark gold and a wide-brimmed hat strode with another man in a blue-lapelled coat, stopping very close to where I stood, directly by my ear. My body was turned away towards the sparsely populated streets behind the cobbled landing, but I angled myself in a way that kept me privy to every conversation.

"John, you speak as if I were a raving lunatic!" The one in the hat spoke boisterously with an English accent.

The man, John, laughed as if it were quite common to be called by such names, "_You speak _as if you are in love and you did not even fully see her! The train was dark and there was netting covering one-third of her face. You are infatuated with a figure."

"It was a fine figure," the other dripped in a low voice, his words sounding carnal. My hand clenched at a wooden post by my waist, the rigged edge digging into hastily possessive fingers.

John chuckled again, "Oh _Mr. Hammerstein_, you know I only mean to look out for you. Did you not say she was with three other men?"

"Do not call me by that horrid name! You've known me long enough to cease associating my behavior with that of my father."

"That may mostly be true Marcus, though you _do _both have a fatal attraction to the things you cannot have."

Marcus replied with a sudden seriousness, his words finally entering my ears without stringing along thoughts on how pleasant the experience to kill him would be. "That _is_ the thing. It was all so strange. She motioned for me to be silent after catching my eye, acting very secretive, and then nodded to the man beside her. Do you think it was a jealous husband? She tried to write something on the window's frost— it could have been her name! God, I will never know her name."

"Even on the dim train I could see pearl white skin. The men with her, though dressed in normal attire, were most definitely foreign. _Romani,_" the man named John gave an atrocious roll of his tongue in attempting an accent. "With a company that strange, I dare say you avoided a sticky predicament by letting her slip into the crowd."

"France is a strange place," Marcus defensively returned, "we were warned of the difference in culture before our time here. That did not change the way she smiled at me, a _true _gentleman. Surely it's in her nature to know _that_ is what she wants. " The ridge dug further still beneath my fingertips, my teeth clenching to the point of pain.

"I swear your whims change with the seasons. What happened to Isabelle, or even Mara?"

The annoying back-and-forth of friends returned and filled my brain with mud. I tuned it out, sending their voices underwater while striding away to search for Nadir, the new slip of information jostling around in my brain.

There were three men with her. _Gypsies_. That entirely explained the carnival invitation.

A dead weight dropped in my chest.

Threats, sneers, rusted bars, rotten bread thrown at my feet, the putrid sent of the dirt burlap mask as it rubbed roughly against the face they would scrape and burn… I grabbed my mask with a heavy hand, as if worried it would tear off of my face regardless of the paste that fastened it, and walked as if fire licked at my heels.

They had shown no mercy. Christine… what will they do to her?

A horn of a steamship soon approaching began to ease the lead of fear in my veins and the utter impatience that had spread like a ripple of disturbed water ever since I had smelled the chloroform in the air up until now, when it had just minutes ago spiraled out of control at the sight of Christine floating away while I was strapped to the ground to wait for another ship.

A harsh laugh broke from my throat at my undue reaction to the knowledge of who took her. It was nothing that I did not already suspect, no startling revelation.

Did I not know it was gypsies from the moment my eyes saw a carnival tent on that damned piece of paper?

Did I not know she was in danger regardless of what criminal had ambushed her in my halls?

_My _halls.

The ones that only expect one set of steps.

The ones that had felt more company on one forsaken night than ever before.

_The stomps of gendarmes, the march of searching mobs, frantic Raoul and Christine, the lonely steps of Christine returning to shock the echoing halls to silence, my senseless wander while the one I loved with every inch of my being lay asleep, her footfalls once again in search of I who had yet to return, and the filthy tread of gypsies armed for abduction… _

The piece of my past that still haunted my dreams had returned to again rip away what little left I had.

Yes, I knew it was gypsies. I had always known. It had been placed in the back of my mind, subconsciously fueling every jerky movement and flashback memory, the blaze of malice felt towards the shadow on deck with Christine.

It all clicked, beckoning forward logic that had escaped my bustling mind like a book replacing the stolen pages that had led up to its most shocking dip in plot.

Someone at the opera house had been watching and plotting, learning how to navigate the corridors, waiting for the opportune moment. I, the bloody _phantom of the opera_, had been haunted. Impossible, though my blind eyes bent on vengeance in the most maddened form had failed to see who must have been right in plain sight. Romani had infiltrated my refuge against the cruel world that their own treatment had fashioned with each lash and rip of my mask, stealing the one who spurred an emotion that had warmed my caged heart to the point of realizing the wrongness of the monster that had taken over my mind… an emotion I once thought I would never experience.

Irony painted itself onto each thought as another realization dawned like a stab to the stomach.

Children seem to adopt the ways of their parents inevitably, just from living with them.

Growing up with gypsies had entirely affected me the same way—

Their stealing of Christine with drugs did not differ all too much from when I had entranced her with my singing that first night at the mirror, her willingness tampered to my liking with the way I pushed my voice into her soul.

They took away her choice, forcing her to leave France with them, leave all she loved.

I had planned to strip her of her choice, satisfying only myself by taking her below and away from sunlight, forcing her to leave her precious fiancé, her friends...

My hand clenched itself into the back of my hair, my eyes blurred by hot, vicious tears.

The innocent boy that had wandered into a traveling gypsy camp had died a cruel death and been replaced with a ghost branded with their ways so irrevocably that they became an entwined part of him, influencing and deadly.

I was no better than those soulless creatures.

It was all I had ever known. The only lesson that my mother could ever muster to teach me was that my face was a cursed weapon, one that could never be loved. _She, _the one person who should have loved me, _despised me._

The docks were far away now along with the chatter of voices, a dirt road leading my leaden steps to a brick wall cloaked in the dark shadows of trees—the side of the first shop in town nearest the port. I leaned my back against its rough surface, unsure when this destination became my goal. Submerged in my musings, I had followed blindly.

_A rat scurrying to darkness._

I closed my eyes and let my weight lean completely against the wall, breathing out a cold and bitter burst of air between my lips.

_Angel of Music, you deceived me. I gave you my mind blindly._

I doubled over and grabbed my knees, finding the breaths harder to push out, harder to take in.

All of this had to be fixed. If my complete immersion into the rescue was not set in stone before, it was now marbled over in impenetrable gold. This was now not only a journey across the sea to save my Angel of Music, but a journey to save myself.

With a couple more slow breaths, I stretched to my full height, a comforting buzz circling each muscle. A horn sounded again in the distance.

The time had arrived.

**Raoul**

**.**

**.**

Nadir walked beside me as we breached into the crowd's heart, talking while his eyes searched for Erik. A landing stage had been slid from the ship, a steady trickle of people boarding onto it.

"Don't think I did not see you speaking to that man. Might it have anything to do with the francs missing from the bag?" He held up the leather luggage, meeting my eyes with a pointed glare.

"I would not risk bringing attention to ourselves. The money was to bribe, though I apologize for obtaining it in such a shifty fashion. The man let me use his parchment to write a letter to my family in order to diffuse whatever search party would soon ensue my absence in Paris. I would not do anything to sabotage our chances for reaching Christine." He was silent so I continued. "You needn't tell Erik—"

"You needn't tell me what?"

At the frighteningly sudden sound of his voice I froze, turning to look up into a pair of unblinking cold blue eyes made even more piercing by the shadows that darkened his face from his hat. He slowly tilted his head to the side, an unspoken threat in the way one corner of his mouth pulled up.

In such close proximity to his lethal stare and tall stature, I hastily stepped back to prevent my crash to the gravel from leaning back so far. His smirk only widened.

I looked to Nadir and opened my mouth to speak but, upon turning back to voice the words, the phantom was already gone. His silhouette was outlined by the moon as he walked towards the steamship, Nadir in a natural tow. I stood, baffled as to what just occurred, and then followed onto the ship that would soon leave me trapped with the man who had tried to murder me for the long length of time stretching between France and America.

**Christine**

**.**

**.**

Being a prisoner cruelly kept in a holding cell was a predicament I would rather endure than this, living in the public while invisible chains bound my legs and a cloth made of air prevented me from speaking. Faces passed by on the ship, immersing me in their kind smiles and compassionate eyes until I felt I was drowning. To brush by hundreds that could help you was torture, the shadows always melded with my own, squashing any opportunity from arising where I could even attempt to speak to another human being with anything other than a courtesy. My prison was a ship where I could roam where I pleased, but never unaccompanied. I suppose whatever unspoken rule of conduct for captivity was still being followed. It was felt all around me, their company closing me in like the protocol of bars.

Clocks, calendars, and ample conversation kept me in the know of the time and date. It was nine in the evening on February 21st and I had been aboard the ship for two full days. Given that the premiere of _Don Juan_ was performed on the 18th, it was a minor comfort to know that I did not lose any days while unconscious after first being taken that morning after.

If the exterior of the ship had instilled a sense of wonderment, the inside was a complete fantasy. The deep mahogany walls of the saloon, intricately carved, were disrupted in their reach up to a domed ceiling only to carve way for the wrap-around hallway that led to the upper cabins. Rich furniture and small tables were arranged in a way to promote social gatherings, while a grand marble staircase led up to the first-cabin rooms. Above still, on the upper deck were smoke-rooms and gambling rooms, though those I only smelled from the men walking out of them with their blustering coughs from the cigars. Through an arched doorway cut from a wall of the saloon and down a hall were a library and a music room. Stewards from the second-cabin served as waiters as well as musicians, entertaining passengers with violins and the piano that could be heard from the saloon, the heart of the ship, as well as the dining room. Upon first hearing the music, right after being pulled inside and away from the port where Erik stood, my heart had wrenched and it was all I could do not to break. Now, I had grown used to the continuous music and let the melancholy of the violins leak into me with a dull ache.

All of the sights in the ship, decorated with the ladies and gentlemen, families, and swooshing colors under the glow of lamp lights, were only seen walking by. Selina, the gypsy girl, seemed to be responsible for me. She was with me wherever I went. It made sense; the first-cabin arrangements were a luxury and the men wanted to drink it all in. Whoever was funding this abduction spared no expense.

I gave a small laugh. What a luxurious abduction it was.

Besnik, Yoska, and Nicolae would disappear in the late afternoon, leaving to smoke and gamble the night away, and issue Selina in their place to watch me. The bars of the prison had to always stay implemented. So, after the three would leave, she would walk with me, watching me with curious eyes while I wandered around and through the rooms, peering into every nook and cranny. The grandiose velvet of the chaise lounges and pillows grazed my fingers while no leather book cover was left untouched. I was in a strange, beautiful prison.

The music room… I refused to go in there, pretending the wall of the narrow corridor never stopped for an archway, that I never saw the organ inhabiting one wall.

Though, as fate would have it, mine and Selina's cabin happened to be right above that music room, intervals of melodies played on the organs keys by those still awake to drift into my ears no matter how hard I pressed my head into the pillow.

Over the past two days, Selina had lost much of her cold shoulder obedience, her submissive fear when around me. She was afraid of the three men, that much was certain, but at night she walk just a little bit taller. We were not friends, no. She also had no intentions on helping me escape. But, there was something in her eyes that made me feel just a little less alone.

"Can we walk on the deck again?"

Selina regarded me with a careful look before nodding and leading me onto the top deck where the wind howled. Most everyone was in the saloon, sleeping, or still eating if they were second-cabin passengers. But, I knew the musicians always played at night on this deck.

The air cut through to my skin like cold knives, though I remained at the railing, torturing myself with the sweet sounds of violins as I closed my eyes and listened to the music mixing with the rush of waves crashing against the side of the ship. I leaned my face in the air for a moment until frantic steps coming towards me broke the placidity. Selina's face was contorted in fear and I realized how I must have looked, leaning over the railing where, if I had kept going, I would've fallen to an icy death.

"Selina, I wasn't—"

"You are my responsibility. What happens to you will happen to me. _Please_…" Her emerald eyes spoke more than her words did. They would kill her if I died— if I escaped. It would be on her. As if for emphasis, the ship leaned heavily to the side, my push against the railing the only component in keeping me upright.

I stepped back quickly once the ship had righted itself, shivering from the cold, and nodded. The strain visibly drifted from her expression and she walked with me back to the warmth of the ship, putting a slim hand to the doorway before whispering.

"I am sorry they are doing this to you."

….

Besnik and Nicolae came stumbling up the stairs from the saloon, inebriated and laughing throaty laughs. A little boy had stopped Selina and, with the boldness signature to everyone of that age, tugged on her skirts and asked her why she wore them. A smirk had twitched on her cheek as she bent down to reply and I took the opportunity to creep closer to where my captors began to walk, hoping to catch anything from their loose lips.

"To those at the camp who doubted us…" Besnik growled an expletive before clapping Nicolae on the back, laughing at his own near-fall on the rug. "We have that repulsive phantom in pursuit, _and_ the privileged brat of a Vicomte." He paused. "This deserves celebration."

My heart began to race, pounding against my chest, and I gripped the banister for support.

Nicolae scowled, his words slurring, "We have hadenough to drinkfor tonight." But, Besnik smiled a sickening sneer and replied, "Selina could prolong the fun." Both men roared, Nicolae moving his hands in the air as if pretending he were feeling a woman's curves.

They drew closer still and I stepped away and nearer to Selina who I watched end the conversation with the little boy as his mother came over with a disapproving glare, grabbed his hand, and walked away. She turned to me, her eyes wounded and I felt revulsion make my head go weak.

Where the men were soulless and cold, she was warm. I had felt it the first moment I met her in the house when she had assured me that no one would come in to harm me as I dressed. She did not deserve their treatment. No matter what role she played in keeping me from freedom, she did not do it willingly. That small decency made her much more than those men would ever be.

My heart still raced beneath the disgust and fear of what was awaiting Selina, bringing above those thoughts the echoes of all I had heard. I had known Erik was coming.

But, Raoul as well…

.

.

**Reviews would be much appreciated! Criticize, commend, say hi... Give me some feedback or ideas, let me know if you liked a certain part, really anything. **


	9. Chapter 9

**I just wanted to take a moment and thank ****_everyone _****who has favorited, followed, and reviewed this story. This is my first fanfic and all of your feedback has really given me motivation to continue it, even amidst the fact that I have learned much about writing since the first chapter. One day, when I have time, I am going to revise the rest of the chapters in the areas that I feel are not my best work. Thank you to those who are still with me, and for the newbies, I hope you stick along for the ride!**

**Your most humble servant,**

**O.G. **

**A note: To clarify, one of the gypsies on deck saw Raoul ****_as well_**** as Erik when he was by the landing. Christine does not know this because she only saw Erik before her ship left. Raoul was wandering around at that beach and then on the landing to write the letter. She now knows he is coming, but not that he is with Erik.**

**Christine**

**.**

**.**

The cabin swayed softly with the waves, as lulling as a mother rocking her infant to sleep.

I couldn't sleep.

It was nighttime on the twenty-third of February and Selina snored softly on the bed beside mine in our shared cabin, her fingers clasped beneath her cheek. A stream of blue light wove itself into her silken hair from the moonlight shining through the little port window and, at the coveted sight, I tugged at the frizzed curls that trapped my head to the pillow, crinkling my nose in disdain towards the hair so _unruly_ I was certain at times it was trying to escape from my head.

I threw the covers off of my body and sat up, choking on the suffocation of such a small room to be swathed in sea air, and was greeted by a dizzy spell.

The open deck full of fresh breeze was calling like a siren.

For the past two nights I had snuck from the cabin to go out onto the deck alone; once, the night I found out Raoul was in pursuit after all had gone to sleep, and again last night with that same agenda. They were clandestine meetings with my own thoughts and, somehow, made the days easier to waste. Still, I did not speak to any midnight stragglers that may have passed by, for I now knew what would happen to Selina. The three gypsy men would harm, defile, and, quite possibly kill her. I was not sure whether they had followed through with their plan to violate her the other night in their drunkenness or not, though their actions showed they had no qualms on the matter. It would be far easier if she wasn't so _different_ from those repulsive men.

With fingers to my pounding temple, I slid quietly off of the bed and walked on my toes to where a trunk stood upright. The golden latches cooled the slick fingers that flipped them open, the click causing my head to fly back to Selina. Thankfully, she was a heavy sleeper.

With a silent, ironic laugh I thought back to how much stealth I had had to impose in all of my actions lately, always sneaking away from people. If the slot for Opera Ghost had not been filled…

The wardrobe was small, plain, though of fine quality. Even my cabin-mate had traded her gypsy skirts for more standardized French dress ever since a growing attention had begun to draw towards our group in whispers and stares. Then there were the suits those three slimy men wore, complete with cummerbunds and long-tailed waistcoats… _Why_ were expenses unheeded? Whoever planned this easily could have placed me in steerage below deck, but, instead, the five of us lived in the specific luxury of the first-cabins. Who was funding an _abduction _so handsomely?

_I had yet to meet the master, indeed._

With a tickle to my mind, I grabbed a green cloak from the silk insides of the trunk and tied it around my shoulders, glancing once more at Selina before slipping out of the door. Another bout of colors swirled in my vision and I stood for a moment against the corridor's wall, waiting for the scene around me to return to solidity. A look down from the wrap-around hallway and to the tall grandfather clock by the saloon's bar told me that it was ten minutes past midnight. Or, maybe it was really two in the morning. Lighting was too poor to tell.

Past the dim-lighted hall, then down the marble staircase, my left hand trailing against the banister the entire time, and finally by a few men with flushed faces at the bar, I reached the opening that led to one of the lower decks. A blustering night wind met the areas of my skin uncovered by the cloak with a numbing slice, but I walked over the planked floor and to the iron railing.

When the sky burst into my vision, I first remembered his words to me those months ago, showing the night as beautiful.

The waves formed and collapsed, the sound whooshing in my ears; a sliver of a moon painted a swirling path from itself to me; the stars were plentiful and twinkling like the crystals of the ring I gave him…

It really is about perception… Anything you see or feel, inevitably, has both beautiful parts and flawed.

_Darkness, I did not adore, _

_The evil that lurked, I did abhor. _

_But, in the dark there must be light,_

_For when we met, we met at night— _

After _Il Muto_, oh God, a piece of myself had been torn away and burned. And yet, each night in the most lavish of beds at the de Chagny estate, he would be in my dreams and thoughts. A composer I most certainly was not, but sometimes I would close my eyes and immediately words would flash behind my lids, continuing his own music, always to that lilting melody from the night he revealed himself. For pity's sake, his songs were in my head the night of Don Juan _directly following_ murder and fear and all of his destruction! _Why…_

_Trees glowed in the foreground, reaching for me with their spindly, twining branches. The lights of Paris blazed as bright as the stars that should have been, orbs of crystalline blue and amber. "__Darkness stirs, and wakes imagination..."__I absentmindedly hummed while taking in the glory of the darkness with a child's wide eyes, as if finally _seeing _it for the first time. _

My head bowed and the curls sprung forward in messy spirals, the only warmth on my body coming from tears that had begun to burn at the corners of my eyes.

He was in my head the whole three months his presence had vanished, after I became engaged to Raoul! _Why…_

_"__Mademoiselle, are these flowers to your pleasing?" I blinked a few times, the pastels of the parlor coming quickly back into focus. Silk was felt beneath my fingers against the chaise lounge I sat on and I glanced up at the maid and the roses she held before me like an offering, some red and some pink. One was tied in a black ribbon and I nearly choked on air before realizing that the ribbon was only detailing on her sleeve. I squeezed my eyes tight before again looking up at her, "For… what?" _

_"__Your wedding, mademoiselle!"_

_My wedding. _

_"__The pink roses are beautiful." The plump woman stared at me oddly before nodding. I interjected again before she could leave the room, "Thank you, Madame."_

Raoul had walked in after that, having already prepared a carriage to take us to lunch.

I clutched at my heart in a dull fury, forcing it to explain itself. Even before I knew Erik as more than a monster, one that that I believed killed so easily, his image would demand to be felt in my mind. Before he explained anything, showed me and assured my mind of every redeeming quality in him when I had come back to inquire, I still had wished to see him with a frightening desire. Ignoring it and forcing a wave of logic over the thoughts had only served to confuse me further and I had hung on to my engagement to Raoul like a safeguard.

"_Why?" _I whispered into the air, the sound dragging knives up my throat. My hands flew to my neck and I rubbed beneath my jaw, the muscle there swollen. Was all of my hoarse crying catching up to me? Though that would be strange for I haven't overexerted my voice at all these past few days, nor have I cried…

Rubbing my neck while readjusting the wrap to keep out the shuddering chill, I again stared into the night and scanned the waters.

_Angel of music, are you out there?_

He left the opera house, his _home, _and went into the public where he could easily be spotted just to save me. He was a wanted man with a visage no more subtle than that of sun when wearing his mask with people _looking _for it. Erik knew how to stay hidden, but would staying in the shadows not make it even more obvious that he was hiding something? He was risking his life to save me and the simplicity of that fact had been etched into the look he had given me from the docks, letting me know he _would_ find me, shaking me with a terrible feeling of undeserving_. _I had betrayed him cruelly and then, as if my capricious mind was not finished with its confusion, tormented him by coming back just to ease my troubled self. The small twitching smile of hope he had given when I came back to give my ring had been absent the time after. The hope had been gone then, and yet he still found it in himself to give _me_ hope of rescue. Terribly undeserving, I was indeed.

_And Raoul, oh God, Raoul!_

The prospect of Raoul coming to find me brought immediately with it another bout of guilt to my stomach like waves of nausea. What have I put him through? He has already imperiled his life just to keep me safe, falling into traps, _leaping_ into them at the Bal Masque, and coming to find me after Don Juan alone where he knew not what he would encounter. All done for a girl his status shunned for engaging. Now, my captors have spoken of his pursuit… Erik did not let him die, but this was an entirely new level of danger.

_The two I cared about most could be lost in the time it takes to blink. _

My shoulders ached, the muscles radiating a raw pain up and down my arms, and I moved my numb fingers over them to ease the discomfort.

Of course, knowing that they were coming for me at all brushed so much ease over my mind that it made the journey more bearable, brought warmth to the cold and lonely nights, and turned my thoughts from their dark places with the little ray of hope. But, with that warmth came torrents of dread. Would either of the two reach me? Should I wish for it, knowing that they may not? Knowing they are risking their lives for it? These gypsies knew of their pursuit… would they be caught and killed beforehand?

Though, finally, on top of the warmth and dread came love— their love and devotion so unaccountably strong that they would leave their lives to rescue the orphaned French actress, so unworthy and childish that she ruined everything and anything to come in contact with her.

A curl whipped free from one ear and cut into my eyes, but I did not move it.

I did not deserve either of their love. In fact, my disappearance should be a godsend to the two! They would mourn maybe for a while, but then be able to move on without my unpredictable mind to make their lives so difficult. It might be best that I do stay hidden, though safe. How to do so, would be another task to develop once I knew where in America these gypsies were taking me. But, I would rather have myself alone than cause the unhappiness of two men who were far better off without me.

Gripping the bridge of my nose between my fingers, I fought weakly against a wave of pain in my forehead.

My thoughts made no sense, but one idea was clear: I had to do whatever it took to rid Erik and Raoul of my burden.

So, I would endure the rest of this ship's travel in tranquility, and then once more knowledge became known, I would plan. Contacting them with a letter of some sort to let them know I was fine, tell them to stop looking for me, tell them to leave me… God, I knew not the method, but I just couldn't put them through this any longer—

As this last thought hung in the silence of my mind, the pain in my temples that had been growing since I left the room raged until blinding white stars sprinkled my vision far more abundant than those in the sky. The ship swayed at that moment and suddenly I knew not which direction I was facing. Everything moved too quickly, too bright. One hand grasping the railing slid to the side painfully, my muscles too weak to keep me upright. _What was happening?_ A figure grew and danced into my fuzzy vision and I felt arms catch my shoulders before black enveloped like an embrace.

**Erik**

**.**

**.**

I loathe Raoul de Chagny.

He's boring, the sight of him annoys me, and the visual of his pompous neck snapping has found its way into my imagination more times than none— usually when he's talking, for it is far more amusing to do so than listen to the words he strings together and calls conversation. This may be subjectively speaking, yes, and during my more intolerable moods, but to find his better qualities requires effort and uncomfortable ventures into the past when he so daringly played 'knight in shining armor.'

_Your civility is for Christine, _I reminded myself.

Though, he adored me about the same as Carlotta did, so it's not as if I was just being _hostile_.

All right I will admit, I was usually hostile.

With a large sigh I interrupted a most colorful talk of politics in the de Chagny family between Nadir and Raoul, "I hate to intervene during this _engaging_ subject matter, gentlemen." Raoul gave a little laugh of spite and twisted in the bar stool he sat on to face me. "But, should we not devise some sort of formatted plan on what we are to do when this ship docks in New York? If not, please continue this wonderful relaying of your family tree." Raoul sneered at this, lifting a hand as if to support whatever remark was about to leave his downturned lips, but then Nadir leaned forward with a disapproving look.

My Persian friend swirled his brandy in the glass before speaking, "Tell us what you have come up with, then. I've known you long enough to understand at least an inkling of what goes on in that mind of yours, and, even with that… obscure knowledge, I have learned to trust the fact that you always have _something_ brewing." At this he flipped the glass up and let the rest of the drink into his mouth with one fluid movement.

A bartender made his way over as my lips began to turn up in a smirk, threw a towel over his shoulder, and asked Nadir if he would like another cognac. He then nodded in my direction where I stood sliding a finger methodically around my glass' rim and I gave a dismissive shake of my head. Raoul's glass was still filled halfway.

On this ship I was a vigilant war hero, having escaped battle with the Prussians, but not before an explosion burned the right side of my face. Though any questions had long since hushed with the logical explanation furtively and casually spoken aloud for any roaming ears— the ship was filled with the French, and in France, no story stays quiet—and I could roam where I pleased without yells of a murderer or monster, the mask was still an unsettling sight and many acted wary in my presence. Thankfully yet another charade was doable all because of my specter-like qualities I had taken up as the Opera Ghost. No one here knew of my appearance and, in the slight chance that they did get a close enough look at _Don Juan _had they been in Paris at all, let alone the Populaire_, _I had been wearing much different attire. The strings to that aspect of the plan were now tied up in a secure knot.

Once the bartender floated towards the opposite end of the bar, I resumed, bringing my eyes up to an impatient Vicomte and an anticipating Daroga.

"First and foremost, when we arrive, we are to remain _behind_ any watchful eye— staying low to attain an upper-hand. No barging in like soldiers with shining pistols or mobs carrying flames." A sardonic smile turned a corner of my lip at the last allusion. "Our _subtle _trio would survive best if we first keep away from any and all attention." I paused to relish in their baffled stares, wrapping a gloved hand on the edge of the bar, and then continued in a lower voice. "Of course, we will know every move of our opponents and will be awaiting the perfect moment to strike, if that was not already obvious."

Raoul contorted his face in disgust, though a strong feeling told me he would have done so no matter what came out of my mouth, "What do you suggest we do in the meantime, walk the beaches and try the finest of wines while we _know_ where Christine is? I refuse to subject myself to such a plan. Staying in the shadows may have worked for you when your stalking grounds were in an opera house, but _this _is different."

Daroga drank more of his brandy next to the fixated spot I stood in with a quiet sigh.

My eyes scanned Raoul's shadowed face beneath the dim lights of the saloon.

"I am well aware that_ this_ is different. But, if you wish to stay alive to actually save Christine, the prospect of which being impossible if we were all to die, then it is imperative that we do not attack the moment our feet touch land. Knowledge is the knife that will cut them down. The knife itself, when used hastily," I glared at Raoul, "will only serve to cut you down."

Nadir nodded before setting his glass down with a clink. "He is right." Then with a laugh, "You would think I have forgotten all that I learned as chief of police in Persia. Haste leaves you caught, dead, or consecutively both. We _will_ reach Miss Daae, and won't sit there when we know she's in immediate danger, but it is very logical to assess said danger before jumping into it."

"Know thy enemy, Raoul. Some man behind Christine on the ship sought me out deliberately, _recognized _me somehow." I stared at a shadow-scattered painting on the wall behind the bar, thinking back to the lurking form of that gypsy. "I do not know exactly who these abductors are other than that they are gypsies, but, they now know that I—quite possibly _we—_am or are coming and will be waiting."

Raoul's eyes turned a darker shade when I brought up my encounter with Christine; he already knew that I saw her, but it still had an outward effect on him.

"And, we will be waiting as well."

….

A scrap of a calendar hung next to a shelf of liquor behind the bar and I glared at it.

_The twenty-third… four days now away from Christine._

The other two had already left and went up to the cabin to get sleep, but I stayed down in the saloon.

It was odd, but I took a certain pleasure in just being surrounded by people. The air was open and glances passed by me with no look of bloodlust or fear, both expressions so instilled in my mind that the lack of them also brought with the pleasure a bout of unease.

But, no matter the fact that the company around me stood so close that it was as if their words were meant to reach my ears as well, I remained a detached outsider.

Inevitably, something would ruin the normalcy that I had been placed into and, one day, it would only be a wistful clipping of a memory.

At this, I abruptly got up from the bar and walked into one of the many wrap-around halls, intent on going out onto the deck for air, but then stopped.

_Of course I chose this corridor. Of all of the hundreds of ways to reach the deck… _

Subconsciously, accidentally, but deliberately all the same, I had made my way to the one sprouted hall housing the ornate, mahogany music room of the ship. A lamplight adorned the organ inside tucked into the right corner of the room and I let out a jagged sigh in its direction.

It had been days since I had last played, sung, composed… But, this was not my home five levels beneath the earth, and, if I were to sit and let my fingers work this beautiful instrument, I feared I would not be able to cease.

My hand gripped the archway and I stared at every inch of music in the room, challenging it to force me inside.

It was not hard, for the room held no drunken men and women singing and slamming on the keys as it so unfailingly held at this time of night and, against all of my better judgment, I walked to sit on the bench, slowly flipping the tails of my waistcoat over the back. My thin, leather gloves came swiftly off next to allow me a better feel for the keys, to stroke them lovingly, and I closed my eyes in the comforting way that one would at the feeling of domesticity— or, so I only imagined for lack of any fond family memories to allude from.

Softly, I played the first melody to surface in my mind, something lulling and gentle, but still filled with life. In fact, it was pulled upon from one of the lighter scores of _Don Juan, _though twisted until it lost all of its revenge and lust, morphing into more recent feelings for a certain Aminta. And, it remained simple, for surely anyone near would become startled by loud symphonies played by a madman in the late hours of the night, ones which boiled in his mind like a barely repressed storm. Restraint was hard, but I kept the music gentle.

After the notes ended themselves in a slow scale, I heard the bustle of a skirt and stiffened. A flutter of soft clapping soon followed and I turned to see a little girl, no older than five and with golden hair that fell to the sides of little fingers, wearing a huge smile on her rosy cheeks.

"Sir, you play really pretty!" Then with a little frown, "Mother tells me not to talk to strangers, but you don't seem strange."

A small smile tugged at my lips in spite of myself. She then pointed to the pipe organ and continued, "Any other person that plays this hits the keys and it sounds bad. I know that because my room is right above this one. They are the strange ones so I know not to talk to them. I am Vivienne, who are you?"

"Erik. My name is Erik." She walked forward and I rapidly felt like a small animal being cornered by a predator— one who came in the form of an innocent child, so _innocent_.

The urge to cringe away surfaced, for it felt as if the evil in me would actually seep out and taint this little girl if she got too close.

"You have a nice voice, Erik. It sounds like music. I like to hear music before I sleep."

"Should you not be asleep? It is very late for someone your age." She frowned again, sticking a fist on her hip, one which barely reached the height of the organ's bench.

"I am almost six!"

I chuckled at the child's iron will, "I am very sorry, mademoiselle, how rude of me!"

She looked down with a furrow to her blonde brow before again meeting my eyes. "I like to hear stories before I sleep too. Do you tell stories?"

Before I could answer, Vivienne had already walked over and grabbed my hand, my _ungloved_ _murdering_ hand, a determined look on her face as she brought me over to one of the chairs between the bookshelves with all of the ease of a child that had not yet been welcomed to the reality of our cruel world.

She seated herself at my feet on the rug, resting back on arms as thin as sticks and waited for me to begin.

"Erik, why do have that on your face?"

An uncomfortable pause spread into the air like vapor as I stared into curious green eyes, not wanting to frighten this young girl.

So, instead of answering, as she so adamantly wished, I turned it into a story.

"That," I forced a smirk, "is the tale to be told. If, of course, you wish to hear it."

She nodded vigorously. With a sigh, I figured a story was a harmless.

"Very well. There was a battle in a magical kingdom, very far away, full of marching soldiers and—"

"Why was there fighting?"

"There was a princess, you see. She was very beautiful, with golden hair… just like you, in fact." Vivienne's eyes lit up and she twirled one of her curls around her finger.

The ability to come up with stories was a dormant reflex, one I had matured until it served to help me form my more_ suggestive_ operas… But, I used to tell stories to Christine when she was younger, the very unbelievably quixotic kind, so that reflex still snapped back fairly easy.

"Two brothers, princes, both loved the princess dearly. They tried to impress her every day with flowers and necklaces and the most delicious of feasts, but she would not choose between the two. Both brothers grew to not like the other, and soon, they decided to battle for her love. Their friends took sides and the armies for the battle were formed."

Vivienne spoke through her yawn with a small hand cupped over her mouth, "Did the brother you were friends with win?"

"No, because neither brother won. It is why I wear this mask. A friend of the beautiful princess, a witch, saw what was happening and grew very angry. The princess had been crying because, since she was so kind and gentle, she did not want to see anyone hurt. The witch also did not like war, so she stopped the battle. But, as all witches do, she did so by casting a _spell_."

Vivienne leaned forward, her eyes wide, green orbs.

"What kind of spell?"

I lowered my voice and continued with a mischievous grin.

"In the kingdom, every member had a mark on the right side of their face of the royal crest." I pointed to a spot on my mask. "It showed that you belonged in the kingdom and, therefore, everyone cherished this mark of honor and importance. The witch, feeling that all of us in battle had betrayed the kingdom's rule of peace, put masks on our faces with the flick of her finger." I flicked my own finger for emphasis.

"It is impossible to take off ourselves and, since no longer can anyone see our marking of the kingdom, we can never enter it again."

I paused, letting the words sink in, watching her mouth part in disbelief.

_Yes, my dear, a beautiful royal crest resides beneath this masking prison, the prison which has _not_ been taken from my face more times than pleasantly remembered. _

"But, dear Vivienne, the princess was kind and had the witch alter the spell. She did not want to see her kingdom lose so many of its members all because of her. The witch agreed, but she was still very clever. So, since the battle was over love, the spell became a spell of love. The spell would be broken for any of us only when, or if, we found our one true love." The words traveled bitterly up my throat, but passed my lips with the same gentleness that accompanied the rest of the absurd fairytale.

"Then, when we find her, the spell will be lifted as well as the mask, and we will again be granted access to live in the kingdom."

"Is that why you are on the ship? To look for her?"

Her hands were clasped beneath her chin and at her small little voice, so full of purity, a ribbon in her hair twisting with her golden curls, my eyes grew more relaxed and gentle, my muscles unwinding their taut tenseness. I could not remember the last time I had spoken to a child other than Christine, and even she was not this young when I first met her. My spite for mankind was always generalized, but I had forgotten the natural compassion of a child.

"Yes," I mused. "Something like that."

At that moment, a younger woman came flying into the room, her eyes darting and crazed. Vivienne turned.

"Mama!"

"Vivienne, dear, you cannot just run off like that! You scared your father and me half to death. Come along, you know you should be sleeping. I apologize, Monsieur, was she bothering you?" Realizing she was addressing me, I looked up.

"No, not at all—"

"He was telling me a fairytale story! Sweet dreams, Erik." Vivienne leaped up, gripped the chair's arm to steady herself, and then wrapped her little arms around my waist before obediently scuttling over to her mother. I sat there dumbfounded before rising, "And you as well, Vivienne, Madame." I inclined my head politely to the mother who returned the nod before ushering her daughter out of the room.

When the room was again empty, the lamplight throwing a warm glow on the rug beneath my feet, I sat back down on the chair and with a knit to my brow, stared at my bare hands.

**Christine**

**.**

**.**

The walls were moving, swirling, and closing in on each other; the ceiling lowered before flying to the highest heights above my head; the bed shrunk and then grew so large that each part of my body touched the walls.

I squinted my eyes tight against the sight, feeling chills shudder up my back all the while heat made my skin burn and prickle with sweat.

A damp cloth touched my forehead and voices were heard in a muffled chatter around my ears, everything distorted but very clear all at once.

"She needs sleep," was picked apart from the rest of the cacophony of sounds, most likely for its appeal, and I let unconsciousness take me away from my pounding head.

….

_Everything was utterly dark and silent except for a steady drip of water, leaving hollow echoes throughout the air. The whine of a violin streamed to my ear and I turned till my chin touched my shoulder, looking to find where the music came from. The sound pulled at me like a string in its sadness, tickling me from all sides, though it was only one violin. The grass beneath my feet was warm as I walked, but the air held a certain, threatening chill. _

_"__Hello?" My voice reverberated in all directions, though I could discern no walls around me. _

_The music was louder now and a moon ascended slowly overhead, showing water as still and crystal as a sheet of glass in the near-distance. _

_I kept walking forward until I reached the bay of the lake and another sound emerged, this one like the crunch of rocks. Something was on top of the water… no, in the water— a ghost of a reflection, light and transparent._

_My curls, bouncing slowly as if under the water I stared at, swirled into my eyesight as I peered down, looking at an image of myself on the surface. But, it was _not_ a reflection— the image's arm was moving, her finger beckoning, every feature belonging to me but somehow darker. A watery smile spread on the mirrored image and I frowned to assure myself in certainty that this could not be my reflection. _

_"__Come, Little Lotte, I have missed you!"_

_My knees fell to the ground as I heard the voice of my father, the voice I had only heard in the smallest echoes of forgotten dreams, those dreams that cruelly slip away the moment you wake. Tears streaming like ice down my cheeks, I crawled on the damp grass, trying to reach my hand into the water where now a smiling Gustave Daae had formed. He was smiling, but his brown eyes were sad and full of— fear? I leaned further and again reached, but, the water was as solid as it had looked and my fingers hit the surface with a painful clank, my knuckles scratching against ice as I vigorously tried and tried again. _

_As sudden as the next breath I took, two arms wrapped securely around my waist. I thrashed, yelling at my father's image as it began to dissolve, swinging hopelessly. _

_"__Christine, don't!" _

_My struggle faltered as the water exploded into the air like a fine shattering of glass, the little pieces spraying into my face, skittering off of my clenched eyelids. A scream erupted in my throat as the abyss grew, my body leaning whereas, if the arms were not holding me, I would have dropped from the cliff and into the darkness below. I gasped and stood, stumbling forward after turning quickly in the hold so vividly felt to see two blue eyes staring down at me. We stood for a moment before the sound of stones returned, this time louder. _

_A rainfall of rocks began to drop near my feet, and just before I could drop as well, Erik tucked an arm beneath my knees and brought me to his chest in one lightning-fast movement, running to take me away as the cliff began to cave in sickening crunches of stone and ripping grass. All the while, that violin music played, still sorrowful and heard above any other sound._

_The scene materialized after he set me down past the area of the cliff's current demolishment and the violin stopped, being replaced by a rhythmic pounding of drums, the sun rose and the water returned in a pool of the hole it had disappeared from— though, this time, the water was blue and lapped softly against the reformed grass, which was now dry and tickled my heels. _

_"__Erik, where—"_

_Green, quizzical eyes looked down at me as I turned and my words froze in my open mouth. _

_"__Are you hurt? …Who's Erik, Lotte?"_

_Raoul… _

_The walls of a house flew up around all sides, the de Chagny estate replicated to a startling likeness but with an abnormal air, everything still. My body suddenly felt heavy and I looked down to see a black dress, full and tight with seemingly infinite thick layers. _

_What did he mean? I had told Raoul of Erik's name before._

_"__Erik, the phantom from the opera house, my angel of music? Raoul, you know this."_

_Raoul inclined an eyebrow, giving a little laugh._

_"__Phantoms and angels… should I fear that your father's stories still affect you?" _

_My stomach gave a cruel clench at mention of my father._

_"__You have seen him! Don't you remember, at the Bal Masque, the cemetery, his opera, in his home… you were _there._"_

_"__And he writes operas as well! I am rather disappointed that I have never met this specter. Christine, what book did you read this from?"_

_I looked down at my hands before freezing again. On my left ring finger there was my ring—silver band with the circular grouping of little diamonds. But, through blurry eyes I held my finger closer to my face and saw the band had changed, finely engraved roses wrapping around the entirety of the sparkling silver. A sob cracked from my throat and then, it begun to close with pressure on all sides. _

_Oh God, what was happening—_

_A black veil fell over my head with a tickle to my nose and I looked up, air again entering my lungs with a wheeze, but Raoul was not alone._

_"__Christine, you need to wake up!" Another Raoul stood to my right, imploring me with his words, his arms tied behind his back and a knife floating by his throat with nothing to hold it. _

_The Raoul in front of me coughed and a mist enveloped him, swirling each of his features; his skin darkening, and stomach widening beneath his waistcoat; his nose curving, hair turning dark and lustered with oil; his shoulders broadening, and sneer widening. Nicolae. No, I blinked, it was not him, but looked startlingly similar._

_The gypsy laughed and took the knife, turning to Erik who had materialized from thin air to stand beside Raoul, his chest bloodied and mask ripped from his face, hands also tied behind his back. _

_The walls of the house fell and I screamed in the wind and snow, watching the man ghost his knife across both of their necks, all the while staring at me. _

_"__It really is a pity that they love you."_

_I ran forward, but the dress constricted around my waist like hands, the folds of it wrapping around the nearest tree in the wintry forest we now stood in, forcing me to watch the ordeal unfold like the most wretched dwellings of all of my fears. _

_My fingers caught the air behind the man's shirt as he moved out of reach, and I closed my eyes tight, willing myself to wake._

_This was a nightmare. Raoul said so._

_Only a nightmare._

_At the sudden silence I opened one eye, then both, staring around at the Paris cemetery. Each avenging angel and weeping saint lay in their perpetual stone, staring at me and pointing their crumbling fingers. _

_I turned to where they pointed with a ball of dread wedged into my throat._

_A limestone grave stood in front of me, bearing my name and a date in a scrawled engraving— and another date far more specific than warranted to a grave scratched crudely to the right of the year of my death. _

_Christine Daae_

_1854-1871 _February 24th

_A scarlet rose sat at the base before disintegrating and blowing away with the wind and into my eyes until I saw nothing but an expanse of red. _

_…__._

The clear presence of light above my head kept my closed lids red as I came to consciousness. Opening them painfully, a lamplight swathed in its orange glow swayed softly back and forth as my vision's fuzziness cleared, focusing on its rhythmic motion with the deliriousness warranted to waking from a deep sleep. My hand was pounding as well as my head, but the main difference was my body temperature— its regularity.

"—and, her fever has lowered significantly, miss. She is very lucky. Keep her drinking water, away from the decks, and, once she begins to regain energy, assume it as your duty to begin introducing food again."

The carved features of Selina, pronounced in the glow of the light, were drawn and haggard as she responded to a plump man with a twisting moustache and large nose which he peered over to glance at me. I quickly shut my eyes again when they met his, clenching weakly at the warm sheets of the bed beneath me.

"Oui, monsieur. Thank you for your time."

The rustle of a jacket, closing snap of a briefcase, and click of a door resounded before I again opened my eyes to look at a tired gypsy sitting on the edge of her bed and staring at the wall in front of her.

"How…" My voice was pathetic, and I cleared my throat, "How long have I been asleep?"

She turned quickly, dark hair whirling with her, and looked at me with a grave expression.  
"Three days. They did not think you would survive it… your fever rose so quickly and you would not wake up."

The light swayed again at the ship's lean and fell on her features, showing me what I before had missed: the purple sheen around one of her eyes that I had mistaken as only being from lack of sleep, and the darker imprint of fingers on one of her bare arms where her wrap had slid.

Her eyes followed my stare and she hastily pulled the lace higher onto her shoulder, turning her gaze back to the wall.

"I heard the captain say we were due to reach America within the next twenty-four hours."

**Erik**

**.**

**.**

The next three days following my encounter with Vivienne were not void of her curious little presence.

For some unaccountable reason, the miniature mademoiselle seemed intent on finding me whenever she could.

I never saw Vivienne during the day, or ever on the deck of the ship, but every night her blonde curls would appear from nowhere and bounce their way towards me, dragging my hand to the library or music room with the same fervent wish— to hear another story.

Her green eyes implored for stories and songs as often as one would take a breath and I suddenly found myself pulled into two different worlds: one during the day, where I was my usual disagreeable self, spitting sarcastic remarks like courtesies to Nadir and Raoul—mostly Raoul—, and, the other at night when a certain humbling I hadn't felt in years would grow in my chest in the presence of a vigorous and vibrant little girl, where my impenetrable armor would momentarily break. Given, the times she would ask for music I would only play a simple appeasing song on the organ. She had asked me to sing before, but I was worried of the irrepressible effect my voice seemed to have on any who heard it.

Such power seemed sinister and wrong to use when knowing what it was capable of… no matter _if_ it were to be only used in the innocent circumstance of a lullaby.

As a method to appease the scowl she would give me at my refusal to sing, for the past two days I had begun to teach her the very basics of how to play the organ. To my growing fascination, she was a quick learner and already knew most of the basic notes.

I would feel very human during the moments she was in my presence. And, after she would float away like the ghost I used to be or leap back to a perpetually worried mother, shame would push at me like the crashing waves attacked the ship's sides.

Murderer, terrorizing phantom, jealous-driven madman, yes… Erik, the brave hero of war, storyteller, _friend—_

Another charade added to my schizophrenic life.

"Erik!"

Shocked to hear that voice at this time of day, I turned from the waves and saw a petite figure in blue running towards me, her feet pattering on the deck of the ship.

Her cheeks were red rom the icy air and a puffing cloud of white surrounded her pale face from heavy breathing.

Vivienne grabbed the fabric of my pants with white fingers before standing in that hunched position until breath was regained enough to speak.

"I just had a dream and—"

"Vivienne, did you just wake up? It is three!"

She frowned, "Yes, and I wanted to tell you my dream!"

Her hold on my leg tightened and I got a very sudden, alarming feeling that her grip on the lower rung of the railing and the fabric of my pants were the only factors responsible for keeping her upright. Her emerald eyes were glassy and her teeth began to chatter violently, only tying together the fear that something was not right.

I bent down and held her arm to keep her standing, my fingers bunching into the extra fabric of a child's coat still too large for the thin arms it encased, all the while searching madly for either of her parents.

"There was a… a song in it a-and I wanted to t-try to p-play it for—"

Before the sentence was finished, she stopped her words and stared at me with a frighteningly blank look.

"Vivienne…"

Vivienne's eyes rolled back soon after her name left my lips and I watched through the white of my own disbelieving breath as she crumpled into my arms like a doll.

"No! _Vivienne, _you need to wake up." I touched her cheek as cold as porcelain before straightening to my full height with her little form tucked partly into my cloak, the bystanders' frantic yells heard garbled around my head.

A dead weight dropped in my chest and I slowly brought my two fingers to where a pulse should be, pressure building behind my eyes in preparation for the answer to the dreaded question.

Faintly, ever so faintly like a delicate flutter of wings, her pulse was felt at the top of a small neck as pale as my mask.

The quickest moment of relief flooded before the fear set back in like the rearing and crashing feeling you get when waking from a nightmare.

As I turned on leaden feet, Vivienne's distraught mother burst through the door of the deck leading back onto the ship and her eyes immediately went to her unconscious daughter in my arms. Following her soon after was the father.

"_Vivienne—"_

She ran forward and, with stiff arms, I slid Vivienne's weightless form into her shaking hold.

From the jostling movement, one heavy-lidded eye opened a slit and a small moan escaped the girl's lips, "_Mama…"_

Her head again went limp, but it was at the breath I gave from hearing her tiny voice that I finally realized I had been holding it.

Madame Beaumont stroked her daughter's slack face with eager fingers, her tears running into her lips. Though, I noted, she did not appear to be startled at her daughter's condition; the drawn expression of her face looked as one might when expecting, though fearfully dreading.

Her husband walked over with lowered eyes and laid a hand on his wife's shoulder, taking Vivienne into his own arms gently.

My presence felt out of place, invading and foreign to even myself, but I could not move. This beautiful, innocent child, full of life and compassion…

Vivienne's mother jumped at his touch, completely dissolved in her own inward glance, but her free hands clutched at her chest.

"Dear, I will take her back to the cabin." She nodded at this before grabbing the child's hand that hung away from the hold of the father, kissing the fingers with eyes squeezed shut. He gave a grateful nod in my direction and I returned it after a moments delay.

I watched solemnly and numbly as Vivienne's father hurried back inside to the warmth of the ship, golden curls swaying by his side, and then looked up when a ghost of a voice cut into my ears— the voice of a broken mother who knew not who she talked to, but cared less about the fact than did the ignorant and regular waves of the sea.

"She was supposed to be sleeping— always supposed to be sleeping. My husband was with her, how did she get out?" Madame Beaumont met my eyes with her own green ones, strikingly similar to Vivienne's. Did she mean to be telling me this? It was because of me that the porcelain child had left the room and all for the sole purpose of telling me her dream.

But, the question was not accusatory, nor was it waiting to be answered.

"Vivienne is very sick, monsieur… has been for months now."

My voice sounded suddenly, though I did not recall forming any words, "Do you know what is wrong?"

She began to shake her head, grabbing the frame of the doorway with trembling fingers before looking at me with a hopeless, water-filled expression.

"No one knows, not _one_ French doctor. All they have told us is to keep her resting and away from the cold. They claim there is someone in America that could help— that is why we are here."

The poor woman began to cry again and I winced, a steady cold seeping through my veins that had begun the moment she had spoken.

"She is only five, monsieur, _five. _This trip is long and she is a very curious, imaginative girl." The woman gave a distant laugh that did not match the reddened eyes staring at her skirts. "That is why we began to take her down at nighttime, so that she could play with the other children for a while… she would sleep all day, and then we would take her down to where the children played."

She looked into my eyes and suddenly smiled, an action so uncommon to me that it was felt like a blow to the chest.

"She never stops talking about you, you know. I have been wanting to thank you… she has never seemed more healthy than after the times she would spend with you. I had almost thought that maybe she was… could be—," her lip quivered and another tear sliced down her cheek.

_Healing._

_Getting better._

"And just now, how you were there to c-catch her, if you had not been there…" She swallowed, letting the sentence again remain finished only in one's cruel imagination.

"I do believe God sends guardian angels."

And with that, I watched with my mouth parted as Vivienne's mother rushed back into the ship to check on the state of her waking daughter, past a Vicomte's gaping stare.

**.**

**.**

**Well, let me tell you, Raoul is beginning the next chapter and I do believe he'll be a little dumbfounded by what he just saw. **

**Please review, give any criticism, let me know what you think, what you liked (if anything, of course)… Any feedback, really, is truly helpful and always much appreciated. **

**I hope everyone has amazing New Year!**


	10. Chapter 10

**Raoul, spotlight is on you! Tuck your curled hair behind your ears, turn on your insecurities and spite, and do what you do best— have some revelations. **

**.**

**.**

**Raoul**

**.**

**.**

The sky seen through a port window was that robin blue, still etched with the grey of winter, but, nonetheless, speaking of a burgeoning and forthcoming spring.

I thanked God thrice-times over that today would be my last full day on this stuffy ship.

My leather shoes clapped down the marble staircase as I made my way to one of the many entryways to the decks. The amount of halls— I swore this was the perfect place for Erik. Though, the Phantom of the Steamship was not nearly as fearful of a sobriquet… I gave a short laugh at this before breeching into the crowded saloon, almost garish with the bright early-afternoon light tinging each mahogany surface grey.

The precious war hero, valiant Erik, was a loathsome creature to be near; his presence loomed to fill every inch of the ship and invade my thoughts like a potent mist. Each word he spoke was laced with venom and any movement of his hands sprung violent memories of the murders he had committed with their aid— deft, calculated, gloved in black murder. He disappeared and appeared at will just like the ghost he was at the Populaire, and it was very disconcerting. Somehow, in the deepest hollow of his blackish core, his specter qualities were as irrevocably inbred as his genetic makeup.

That abnormal fluidity in his every movement as if coated in dark waters; the _sensuality _exuding from the smallest of steps! He never noticed it, never strived for the demeanor, for it was also inbred. He never noticed how women looked at him on this ship, those younger ladies staring him up and down hungrily when they thought no one was watching— following his every move with their eyes, their heads on a turning axis.

But,_ I_ saw them watching. _I _felt my food begin to inch back up my intestines.

That formidable air he gave off, disinterested in all he saw; the mystery of the mask— I watched him unknowingly lure women, beguiled by his cold manner, by the _challenge _he seemed to be, across a room with the action as innocent and unconcerned as walking over to a window.

They would shake their heads as if ridding themselves of some thought, glance around the room, and then walk away. He did not even see it!

Three times this had occurred.

And, these trances, along with any other instances observed by my disgusted eyes at the openness of the ladies' blind interest, functioned fully to torturously bring forth those cruel times I had watched Christine look at him the same. _Don Juan…_

As if spurred by the context of my thoughts, a row of three painted ladies that had stood among the steps burbled and convulsed flirtatiously in my direction, following me into the saloon with a less-than-subtle scurry. I nodded pleasantries with a smile, but then continued on a straight path with my eyes staring _through_ every sight.

It was nice to be the focus, the desire, of course… but lamentably realized, my desire was to be with one far away— both physically and mentally. The mystery of Christine only grew with each day, every moment we ever shared on a plaguing reel in my mind.

In my thoughts, a shadow always lurked…

Yes, I suppose Erik had pleasant moments if I stripped any predisposed opinion of him from the judgment. Far more times than I would ever admit vocally, I had found myself struggling profusely to keep my face stoic, to keep the laugh in my throat in the constant stream of his sardonic quips. He was different outside of the Populaire, a man if you only listened to his words…

And yet, then his voice would quickly spread its unearthly, hypnotic timbre to my ears and I would instantly remember its effect on my fiancé, his hands on her in _Don Juan, _the almost _reciprocated_ ecstasy in response; his lips so gently on hers while I stood in knee deep water and her leading, bold, and _loving _lips stoutly on his…

My pace quickened. Air— I needed air.

_War hero. The only war he fought was the one with his repulsive soul. That demonic siren. Was it a win or loss for him in finding the will to let us free from his grasp— one redeeming, humane act to save his hellish conscience?_

_But, you knew she did not really want to leave, _a horrible voice snickered in my mind. _In fact, she went back… _

The thought began to shout in my mind from all sides of my head, bringing all the more rage when I reached a window beside an entryway to the deck and settled me eyes on the tall form of my forced companion standing at the railing, garbed in black and burgundy.

The moments he would most torment my mind, somehow, he always managed to show up, unconsciously driving me mad with his impeccable timing.

He turned to his left for a moment. From this angle you could not even see the mask— he appeared as a normal man, a mere passenger on the ship with the same methodical life as every other Frenchman. But, that was a lie; I looked closer with a scrutinizing stare. Even separated by a pane of glass I could see the windows of his eyes, the exuberating pain, the accumulated, century-old culture which must've been from the infinite time of a solitary life, the statuette stance he had freakishly perfected to remain soundless and formidable. A ghost. The fine attire, the unmarred left side of his face… He was still a ghost.

The ghost turned back to the waves.

What had captivated Christine— formed the hold he had over her? Had… _has._

The thought dripped bitterly down my throat as I clenched my teeth, picturing what her darting brown eyes must have looked like when seeking him out while I was obliviously sleeping beside emptiness at the inn.

As sudden as my next breath, he whirled to his side again to watch a tiny blonde girl run towards him, a look of mild shock etched upon his face

My shoulders tensed and I searched impulsively for the weapon that was not there. Surely, he would not hurt a child…

I did not know him. _I did not know him. _

She grabbed his leg in a whirl of straw-colored curls and exasperated, red cheeks and Erik looked down at her with a gentle, distracted smile, a slight curve on those stone lips presumed only capable of forming a sneer. I could not move; I stood at the window, gaping fully as if I had seen the sea roar up, grow a face, and sing soprano.

The monster, who terrorized an opera house, was showing the most fatherly and adoring of affections, bending down now and holding the little bundled doll of a girl upright with a concerned grip.

She was not frightened as she should be. He was not cold or visibly volatile as he should be.

Who was this girl? Never had I seen her! Erik was almost always with Nadir and me. Well, at night he would venture off alone.

There was little time to comprehend, act, or move, for the proceeding events unfurled rather quickly, like a deadly ribbon.

The girl was not right… a sickly pale covering all but her wind-whipped cheeks, no matter how animated her face was in whatever she was proclaiming to him. Even I could sense something was amiss.

There was chatter behind my ear, voices wondering why this man stood at the window as if he would die in stepping away. But, I could not move, I _could _not!

I watched her face turn from vibrant to slack like a waning moon, and then leaned forward, closer to the window in detached, witnessing fear as her small form collapsed into Erik's arms. Even with only half of his face visible, the emotion… it was broken. He was looking at something broken that he could not fix, and one would think he had been stabbed if they hadn't known any better.

The phantom; dropping a lifeless Buquet down on the rope from the rafters, more than likely killing Piangi just to take his place onstage with Christine, wanting my head in the cemetery, growling as he fastened the rope around my neck tighter, and tighter…

Erik; holding a child delicately in his arms while he checked, more softly than I ever thought those hands capable of, for a pulse, covering her pale figure with his velvet cloak, staring down at her as if his world had been swept from his feet.

Who _was he?_

A woman in violet skirts whirled past me, gripping the doorway at my left to stop herself from flinging off of the ship, and gasped a name. Vivienne. The girl's name was Vivienne.

A man with blonde hair followed just behind, lingering at the door with a look frighteningly mirroring Erik's at the sight he beheld.

My feet were frozen to the ships carpet, held by steel. This _villain_… so vulnerable, worried, capable of any feelings at all! The only time I had witnessed this tenderness was right after Christine had… kissed him, before he let me go. There, right then, I had seen a scrap of humanity in him. Yes, he had been very exposed after telling Nadir of Christine's abduction, but, that was the numbness of losing a love, the hatred towards himself for not preventing it. Even then, he would hardly reveal even a sliver of real emotion in my presence.

But, he could not see me right now.

This… I watched him slide the girl, Vivienne, into the presumed mother's arms. He looked at the unconscious child as if she were every piece of goodness of the world, as if he were watching a thief steal it like coveted jewels.

She was not scared of him, she had _touched him, _and did not recoil in horror from his presence.

She was innocent. All children were innocent.

The girl stirred and Erik visibly let out a large breath, his eyes lightening with relief.

Madame Giry had told me, after the Bal masque, that Erik had never known kindness, and even I had seen how a single kiss dissolved his entire murderous plan.

He had never known. This little girl had touched his heart somehow, just as Christine had. It must have only taken a few days for it to happen— only a few small days for his _lonely _heart to be touched.

I gulped thinking back to my childhood; the smiling governesses, ample toys and friends to fill the days, loving parents, _love _in general, as expected and regular as the air I breathed.

What a poor soul to be moved by the innocent kindness of a child. It felt strange thinking the words and did, in no way, change what he had done, but, at the sight of the grown man who had turned to ice by the world's cruelties… the words fit: he was a poor, unfortunate soul. Christine had told me enough times with all of her pure compassion, but now I was actually witnessing it. I winced at the memory, remembering how dismissive I had always been to her about that subject.

The statue-still monster stood with every broken shard of a father watching his daughter wilt before his eyes while the loving parents held their child, him being close to them, yet seeming very far away.

Who _was he?_

The father hurried back onto the ship with the child while the mother stayed by Erik.

My steps found their way closer to the doorway after the father brushed past and I watched the encounter without the obstruction of glass in-between, the stream of winter's last feeble gusts of air rolling from the waves and into my hair.

If only I could hear their words; the passengers warred in volume with the already noisy-beyond-belief ship.

She was crying, he was still, but nothing of the woman's face was accusatory. He asked something to which she responded, and his eyes darkened and jaw stiffened, the cleft more pronounced, yet not in a threatening manner.

His face… never would I have expected to see so much emotion on a face carved in half.

The mother's words melted into his eyes and left such eloquence that I understood that which I could not hear.

His lips suddenly parted in shock at her next words and I found myself wondering, _interested, _in what exactly she had said.

His entire existence was a mystery and I was floundering to uncover even the slightest scrap.

The mother hurried past where I stood, tracing the path her husband took with the little girl and bringing wind with her, but I did catch the two words she muttered to herself under her breath; the ones that traveled to my disbelieving ears like an ironic and piercing burst of wind.

"_Guardian angel." _

**Erik**

**.**

**.**

The steps Madame Beaumont took back into the ships interior seemed to have singed into the ground, and my eyes remained on their path as I absentmindedly played with the tips of my gloved fingers, the wind from the waves whipping at my back.

I knew Raoul was just by the doorway, next to my line of sight, but I did not _care. _

Let him see the ruthless ghost battered over the concern of a mere five-year old.

_Guardian angel…_

His eyes followed me with a tangible sear as I strode past where he stood, brushing roughly by his shoulder while keeping my gaze straight forward to the grandfather clock at the far end of the saloon.

"Enjoy the show?"

I heard him cough at my voice thrown back to him, for he knew I was already by the hall leading to our row of cabins.

But, to him, it was whispered into his ear. Ah, ventriloquism. Mindless fun; a diversion scraped at with the fingers of my mind, trying to gain any fleeting satisfaction to fill the empty pit in my stomach.

_Guardian angel…_

Those two words made my mind curl in on itself, mirroring all of my deceit with Christine. These words were earnestly spoken, just as hers had been… but through the recounts by Vivienne and her own observations, had the mother come to her unfathomable conclusion. No secrets… no pretenses.

I swallowed, closing my eyes just to see green ones, big and bright with youth and fringed with fine gold lashes.

_She was sick and weak and dying._

No, that could not be. She had a full stretch of life waiting for her vivacious little self, waiting to see all that she would become! Was the world _that_ cruel?

My fingers could not seem to get a hold on the rickety door handle, and I leaned my head against the door in resignation.

The answer to that question was obvious.

Throwing the brass handle open, now aware of the Vicomte's presence hurrying towards me, I walked to the far wall and rummaged through the drawers by the bed decidedly, pulling out all of our francs. They fluttered to the bed in the scattered pale greens and reds of French currency.

"What are you doing?"

What are the costs of doctors in America? For fine ones… All of it. I would give all of it.

Besides, it was easily reimbursable.

"Erik, where are you putting that?" Raoul's infuriating voice became all the more demanding, and Nadir strolled in with the scent of incensed smoke, joining the fun.

"Ah," I sang without breaking the focus from my task, "Welcome, Daroga."

Methodically I slid the franc notes into various envelopes found in the desk, tucking the flap in for lack of wax, and then tucked them into my vest for the next day.

The ring in the pocket brushed against my knuckle and I shuddered.

At New York's port I would exchange the notes for American currency and give the whole amount to the Beaumont family. The most imperious and renowned doctor would drop his dying patient to help this girl if I had any hand in it.

Nadir's voice came, tired and berating, "That is all we have, my friend. Whatever you are planning—"

"There is no need for explanation. I am not expending for destruction, bribery, blackmail, or whatever else you might imagine."

Raoul opened his mouth and I turned to glare at him with a small, knowing, challenge of a smirk, "Quite the opposite."

"You will find that it will not be missed for long."

**Christine**

**.**

**.**

Though I had just awoken from a _three day _rest, it happened to be the evening and, under doctor's commands, I was to sleep the rest of the fever's effects off. Granted, I was still unaccountably tired so the task was not truly protested as much as I wished it to be. My whole body felt as if weights kept me in place; I could only move with great effort and was too weak to say much of anything.

A fever… _When did fresh air become a vice?_ I supposed it had been rather cold and my clothes were thin. Well, and I have not really slept much at all before it came on, but, I never felt or recognized the symptoms at the time.

Before my head touched the pillow, after Selina turned the lamplight off and washed the room in an invading darkness, a foreboding thought began to flash in my head like the fire that threatened to destroy the Populaire, sprung by the words of my strange gypsy cabin-mate.

_I heard the captain say we were due to reach America within the next twenty-four hours._

Tomorrow we would be in America, the land I had only heard of in stories, the place where unknown threats lie waiting for my presence, the country that I may very well never leave.

The placidity of this travel was only a necessary and forced length of time— a forced length of time where my captors wore civility like a horribly tight hat.

But, when we were to finally reach where they wished to take me I had a frightening feeling that all pretenses would be shed and I would see their monstrosity with a cruel and relentless precision.

My fingers groped at the sheets surrounding me, Selina's steady breathing mocking me in its normalcy as a clock ticks slowly on a mantel.

I fell asleep with a ball of dread wrapped in my stomach and a thousand tar-ringed eyes behind my lids, both of which restlessly promising that soon all of this bearable travel, suspended in a waiting air, would fall with a clap.

Or, rather, a ship's horn.

….

My morning—if you considered noon still morning since I did not wake up until then—consisted of toasted bread, tea and many, many sounds.

Truth be told, I was very thankful that I was still alive. The rise and fall of unconscious sleep did not previously allow me to wallow on the fact of how close to death I had been. Even my dream tried to kill me off on the twenty-fourth— perhaps, that was when my fever was at its worst? Dreams haunt those awake because they always tend to show a glimpse of reality… Somehow, someway, though, I did not let death gleam his reaper and take me away. My situation was not a happy one, no, but while there was a God, I was content with living on His land.

My stomach was too weak to digest much more than plain toasted bread that scratched drily down my throat and unsweetened herbal tea to join it, all brought to me by Selina. It was a strange little arrangement. Neither of us really spoke, but she knew I was grateful, and I knew she was worried. And not just worried for her life.

About the sounds… I was thoroughly surprised I could hear my own thoughts. Talk of our nearing destination had spread like wildfire and there was not one inch of the ship unfilled with the murmurs, hollers, clanking luggage, bustle of skirts, and the muffled stomp of running feet on carpet of every impatient family aboard. One could only wonder what the raucous sounded like when immersed in it as opposed to being holed up in a little cabin room!

So much excitement beyond the door to war with the strength of my growing dread.

"I think the time is overdue for you to change out of that nightdress… four days overdue."

Selina gave a little laugh while picking through her own luggage of red and purple and gold, caressing the garments, and then tucking beneath those colors the blander attire she had been wearing to conform. The bruise on her arm was now tinged with yellow and blue and she had used powder to conceal her black eye. Her life was tied to mine— now that I was healing, she need not worry as much as before when my life hung off of a cliff held only by a hinge.

"Are you too weak to stand?"

"No… No, I think I have been in this bed far too long. I would love nothing more than to just stand up and do something as menial as changing into a dress for the day. No worries, no fevers, everything familiar. Just picking out a dress for the day," I mumbled idly, catching a stretch of pity on Selina's lip. My legs were wobbly from disuse, but I slunk to the tiny washroom connected and drew water in a basin, peeling off my nightdress and washing away the product of every nightmare from my skin.

The next few hours passed by slower than the four days I was bedridden and it was most likely after seeing my blank stare at the wall that Selina handed me one of her books to read. The cover was turquoise and crimson, the pages yellowed and cultured, and I took this beautiful distraction from her fingers with a small, grateful smile. After the first couple pages, though, I learned something quite crucial.

I did not understand a _thing._

Yes, it was written in another language, but the pictures were unlike anything I had ever seen before.

Selina's sniff of a laugh forced my head up, and she spoke, "Do not hurt your mind with this. Romany is a very different language. Tarot cards, magic, fortunes, and prophecies… this book has been in my family for a long time. It is sort of a joke, for it contains the extent of what every other culture considers there is to being a gypsy—dirty thieves with crystal balls, but it aids me for when I perform. I—"

An abrupt spurt of pounding resounded on the door and Selina dropped her words, brought down her amused brow, and scurried to open it.

Instinctively, I threw one of the bed's blankets around my shoulders to cover myself, no matter that I was fully dressed.

Besnik stepped in, the shadows of the hall cloaking his heavy form.

With a raspy voice, tinged with eagerness, he spoke, "We are nearing the port."

In fact, he appeared quite pleased with himself for having successfully smuggled me across the Atlantic.

"Meet us on the deck as soon as possible," he smiled, smoothing down his cream coat with jumpy fingers, before beginning to leave. "Oh, and Christine," he turned, the light glaring on his oily hair and yellow teeth, "I have to thank you for your cooperation. It really made the circumstance… much more bearable for you. Given, you almost died," he tilted his head as if looking for his train of thought, "But, that was unforeseen. I am_ glad_ you remain with us."

And, with a stretching, greedy smile vocalizing the true motive behind his words, he turned on his heel and walked into the hall.

I looked to Selina, but she was not facing me.

February twenty-seventh, eight days from France; and, now, beyond that wooden door, down to the first level, and onto the deck the foreign lands of America would emerge and pin itself onto each of my dreary thoughts, mocking me with its abrupt arrival into sight.

….

The carriage wobbled, jostling my lowered head as I stared at my skirts, winding my fingers in the fabric; the sea air was still felt there and my nerves seemed to have not yet left the ship's rocking motion.

Back-and-forth, back-and-forth…

It was night when we reached the port. The lights had been blinding, the smells foreign as well as the fashions, but my mind had been in a tunnel. I had barely noticed anything passing by— any jump to my senses at the new surroundings were felt as if in a dream.

This was not a trip. I was not here to _see._

I did not know why I was here.

The window of the carriage felt cool against my cheek and I let all of the colors whoosh by my closed lids while trying to ignore Besnik's knees against mine and Yoska's hip touching my own.

The world bled out like ink when I willed it to, and I slipped into that delirious state between mindfulness and sleep, relishing the blankness of it. It did not scare me like it used to.

I welcomed it as one welcomes a coping vice they know will turn on them.

It could have been an hour or more, or even ten minutes, but the wheels eventually stopped with a crackle and the carriage car lurched forward.

The door burst open by the hand of the driver and Besnik nudged me with his knee.

Lifting my skirts, I stepped out and raised my lowered eyes to this final destination, suddenly incredibly weary. The magnitude of the travel's length, of how long I had been away from France, pushed into my chest again, full-fledged, and I practically stumbled backwards.

_Coney Isle's Carnival of Freaks _was written on a curling banner of black, the words painted white. It hung above the opening to a large red tent, the path to which being lined with all sorts of posters for the attractions. Lights were flaming beneath each, throwing ghastly shadows on the peeling paint that portrayed mystics, contortionists, and even a man with a tail. There was a ticket stand next to the slit in the fabric tent, the glass cracked, and gold tassels hung from a billowing awning.

My eyes widened both in curiosity and fear and I stepped back again, while leaning my torso forward in a strange, contradicting reaction.

Selina trudged into view, took off her hat, and I glanced at her; she was staring at the sight with a look that seemed of suppressed disgust, but familiarity.

The men, along with other strange company, walked around the side of the monolithic tent, dragging me with them without even touching me. It was dark, the forest was growling, and I did not want to be alone on such foreign ground. Also, their unspoken demands sounded louder than those inaudible. Trees crowded heavily to the left as we walked, next to a shadowed grouping of smaller tents placed about in an orderly fashion and bordered by a high-rising fence, but the rush of lapping water was heard distantly to the right. I did vaguely recall seeing a long strip of a beach at one point when the ship had docked at the port. We were in the city, but Coney Island, whatever this place was, was apparently a seaside town.

A fire was burning, shapes moved and wound between the dark village of tents, and Selina went to my side as we inched down the path that led away from the publicly used part of this… carnival, I supposed.

"This is where my clan lives… We're in Coney Island, but this specific area is where we stay as an attraction to the voyagers. You will see—"

"Selina, dear," Yoska snapped, "you have many talents, but I do not believe this knack for talking will bring you many places. Why don't you go help the women with dinner?"

She closed her mouth and looked at me before walking away to where a small group of women sat peeling some type of vegetable. Spices wafted into my nose and I searched in the dark, watching the meandering gypsies live their lives in a culture very alien to me before turning my sight back to the dirt path I tread on, noting how the tips of my wrinkled skirts were being edged with the soil.

Now alone with the three men, fear crept down my arms and I pulled my sleeves up further, disregarding their amused laughs. I was led farther down the dark path silently, past the inhabited area, and to a small tattered tent. Violent urges shook my hands; I wanted to hit them, pound on their chests, call them names I had never once uttered. Hopelessness surged also; I wanted to drop to my knees, lay my head on the dirt, and beg for my life. The night air was seeping into my skin and the sound of their cacophonic breathing brought dread— so much dread! We were close to the city, but I felt as if I were being dragged farther and farther into a jungle where no one would ever find me. Erik and Raoul would never find me! _No_, I chastised myself, _they are not supposed to. This is too dangerous._

That blank place was hard to remain. This was all too real and I could no longer pretend as I had on the ship, telling myself it would loop back around and drop me back off at the opera house, that Erik would be in the music room, or that Raoul would be waiting on the staircase, safe and every aspect normal. No lives in peril. _Anything _to sweep reality beneath a carpet.

The flaps of the tent tickled my arms while I was thrown in, a sweet odor filled my nostrils, and then, suddenly, the dark blankness descended on me like an embrace.

**Erik**

**.**

**.**

"Thank you, sir." I kept my head bowed, took the American currency into my gloved hand, and then turned back to the remaining throngs of people loading off of the ship.

America. New York. Coney Island— the city's amusement crawling with people, gypsies, anyone setting up their attractions to steal money with cheap tricks that drag parents towards their wandering children and empty their pockets at their child's plead of '_just one more ticket!_'

It would be hard to locate Christine…

It would be very easy to earn back the money I was imparting to the Beaumont's.

The place _was_ strange, myriad colors whirling and the sights insurmountable, even slightly fascinating, had I not been so focused on the task at hand.

I knew Daroga and de Chagny were impatient, standing restlessly against a post with the luggage, but I had my own agenda that I intended to stick to.

With impeccable timing, the Beaumont's walked down the ship's ramp, a sleeping Vivienne grasping weakly to her father's neck as he held her on his hip.

I strode over to where they stood blindly searching for where to go next, holding my breath the whole way. Confrontation was usually never face-to-face with me, nor did I ever tend to seek out someone in a friendly way. With Christine, well… there were other motives.

"Monsieur and Madame Beaumont," I called once I was close, the words practically ground out from the unfamiliarity of such civil conversation. The father, Charles, angled his head in my direction very carefully in order to not wake Vivienne with his stubble-lined chin.

Softly, I spoke again,"Take this." I handed the envelope into Marie's, the mother's, free hand and as she took it quizzically, I continued, "I will not hear of any protest, nor will I take it back. My only condition: use it completely for the girl, for the most handsomely priced doctor you can find with it."

Marie's green eyes, flashing with the lights of the city beyond, grew wider each second as she looked at the contents, her hand shaking as she showed her husband.

Before I had blinked, she gave a cry, reached up, and quickly kissed my left cheek, an errant tear smearing onto my face that felt like ice from the air that touched it.

"Monsieur, Erik, my God, how can we ever repay you! We were not sure if we could even afford a doctor here, for the research, but… oh, _merci_!"

Vivienne woke up as Charles shifted his arm so that he could support her with only one, grabbing my gloved hand in a firm handshake with his free one.

I could not move, breathe, think… Vivienne lifted her lidded eyes drowsily around her, widening them when she saw me.

"Dine with us tonight… I insist." His eyes were careful around me, unnerved by the mask I wore, the fear— but he appeared to mean his words, and by the little laugh he gave, they seemed to surprise him as well. "You have no idea how much this means to us— how much you are helping our family."

I was being treated as a moral human by ones fully blind to all I have done in the past, to how much of a fallen angel I was, but my insides burst with warmth regardless. It flowed freely and tried to wedge its way into all of the darkness, but I knew. I knew one act did not turn me into what they claimed. It merely served to deceive those around who should know better than to trust my capricious ways, the ways that not even I fully controlled.

My left cheek buzzed and right hand thrummed…

But, dine with them, I could not.

"You are most kind for offering, but I do have very important matters to attend to. I _will_ likely be around, though, to make sure all is faring well with your daughter."

Vivienne gave a drowsy frown against her father's chest, "I _do_ have a name."

A low breath of a laugh escaped my lips and Marie gave a sad, though tender smile to her daughter. "Yes Vivienne, we know you do."

Contented, she turned her head to stare right at my mask and spoke in her tiny, though impossibly mature, little voice, eyes earnest and squinted against the lights,"I hope you find your love."

The loving parents nodded a farewell in my direction, some of the tense lines erased from their faces, and then walked away with visibly higher shoulders.

_I hope I find her as well, my dear._

**Raoul**

**.**

**.**

"Nadir, where are we sleeping tonight? That was all of our money."

The Persian shrugged with a laugh, "It will not be on the street. He will come up with… something."

Erik had been standing with that family from the ship, and I knew he had given the money to them. The act… was incomprehensible and so separate from who I knew him to be that letting my mind dwell on it brought actual pain to my head.

Now, I knew not where he was; he had disappeared into the crowd piling off of the ship after the family walked away.

The ripping glimpse of him was too recent and strange for me to even associate what I saw as belonging to the same man known as the Phantom of the Opera. How could I, when it contradicted all I had ever witnessed? I will go mad!

That pretense was slipping slowly and fearfully out of memory…

But, then it pulled back into my head rather quickly when Erik materialized near my shoulder, a cold smirk on his lip, and something gripped in his hand hidden partly by his cloak.

He flipped open the piece of leather, pulled the money into his fingers, and then tossed the wallet into shadows with a flick of his wrist.

Tucking it into his vest, he spoke coldly, though his eyes still echoed warmth from whatever must have occurred with the family blessed by his patronage, "Why so quiet? You did plan on sleeping under a roof, did you not?"

The Opera Ghost, with no qualms just as before. All was set right.

Nadir sighed, "Erik, if I had known you would steal the money back, I would not have let you give it away in the first place! What you did was commendable, but—"

"Daroga," he cut, "I _am_ trying out morality for a while. The man I took this from had just finished telling his friend on how he planned to… ravage the virtues of some unsuspecting females that had just entered the park together. Let him try to get in without any money. Now, I cannot say I am torn over his misfortune."

Nadir's eyes widened a fraction, but then settled quickly with a small smile and a shake of his head. He appeared to believe this fully, even seeming as if he were berating himself for not expecting it. "And the friend—"

"—had no money on him."

Erik looked quite pleased with himself.

He had used his frightening qualities for good. My head again swirled and I felt... _shamed _for wishing him to be a monster. It was easier that way, but what kind of man did that make me to wish it?

"Given," the saintly thief added, "this will only buy rooms for the night, but it buys me time to earn back the rest. I have a feeling Coney Island would enjoy a little magic, don't you agree, Nadir? It _was_ how we met— I am sure you remember."

My eyebrow sailed, "_Magic?_"

"You said we were to remain unseen," Nadir reasoned as Erik slid the money into his hand, "you will attract too many people."

Erik paused and knit his visible eyebrow to the center, the moon glinting off of his mask and dark hair, "When have I ever not been able to remain unseen?"

"Erik—"Nadir called, but it was to the empty air. Erik was already gone.

.

.

***Erik disappears into a cloud of red smoke after throwing me a note demanding he be allowed to perform legerdemain* Just to clear: though the story assumes Erik's past to have followed Kay's plot, the characters and the events that proceed his arrival to the opera house follow that of Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber's! (if that was not obvious.) **

**Ease an aspiring writer's mind and leave notes in that lovely blue box down there! You know the drill. ;) **

**A/N: Though they are in Coney Island, this story is not going to turn into Love Never Dies! I would never be that predictable with the ending... I just found the setting to be an amusing and fitting place for gypsies to bring Christine and decided to borrow it. Hope it did not throw anyone off!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Well, I could tell you the lovely/tragic story of my lack of punctuality that involves traveling with no wifi, computers malfunctioning, school, annoying fevers—I feel you, Christine— and fleeting muses (though once they arrived the story erupted in about three days.) But, you want to hear the actual, interesting story! Thank you to my faithful readers who put up with my lateness… You all mean so much! So, without further ado, chapter 11 with the "more" you all were hoping for. **

**.**

**.**

**.**

**Christine**

**.**

**.**

Waking up is a strange ordeal when you find yourself staring up at a blood-red sky, trees of white cutting through the air around your eyes, bending and curling in a wind that was not felt by the skin, but heard by the ear. Sand brushed and scratched at my arms, and a tendril of my hair was stuck between my lips.

My eyesight was blackened around the edges and scattered with small starbursts of gold, but each blink cleared them— cleared my mind of its sweet fog.

The sky and the trees morphed into grimy flaps of a tent.

The sand was cold, dampened dirt.

Again, I had been drugged.

The bruised fingers that, with trepidation, I realized belonged to my own hand, moved to clear the hair from my face, but a force tightened and trapped them in their clasped position.

Again, I had been bound.

A scuffle sounded and I felt my skin crawl, then dug my fists into my stomach to stop its pounding before daring to look.

Golden flakes of dizzied eyesight jumped in front of my vision, but I now knew I was not alone.

"How was your journey? First class… mmm, _not_ my idea." A raspy voice, deep and unharmoniously accented wrapped around my fear-prickled skin and I turned my head, curls scraping into the dirt, to get a better look.

My heartbeat jumped in my throat.

I had been traveling with gypsies for over a week— that aspect of his appearance did not induce the panic.

Despite a few changes, _it was the man from my fevered dream._

Sitting on a stool a few feet away— his girth was so wide it appeared as if he sat on the air— was a large man with a large, crooked nose; thick fingers crowded with rings, clasped powerfully beneath his chin; dark hair to his shoulders, framing a jutting chin and short neck; and, a beard trimmed to a swirling design. He dressed nicer than the others seen in the camp, but that was not what made him different.

He was dangerous… exuberating power with a chin raised above so that his face was barely even seen from my angle on the ground.

"Are you mute?" He paused before guffawing at his own joke, the sound like the scraping of stones, "of course you aren't. Your voice apparently never ceases, Paris' songbird." The man leaned his head down and gave me a perfect view of his coal black eyes, staring coolly into my own as he turned his words into the vilest of insults.

This was the master.

This was the master, and I was going to die.

I wriggled helplessly against the rags that bound me with a desperate pant, but the gypsy man only laughed harder, like a cat dangling a mouse before making a meal of it.

"You are most likely wondering why I have brought you here." He turned away from me as if I were garbage found beneath his shoe and began to twirl a ring thoughtfully around his finger.

My neck hurt from holding it up and, now exhausted from the vain struggle against the bindings, I let my head drop to the floor, staring where a steady stream of water dripped through the fabric top of the tent.

The snow was melting. Last time I had been at the opera house the snow had fallen in heavy flurries.

"I am beginning to wonder so, myself. Your knights are pursuing— I could kill you now and they would still blindly show up to save their damsel. Really, I was rather hoping Erik would've made it onto that same boat you took… delivering himself in all of his deformed glory very simply to my feet, along with the _de Chagny _noble boy right by his side." He dramatized the surname with a horrid French accent.

Did that mean… Erik and Raoul were coming here together? _That can't be. _

_My dream, with them side by side, knives at their throats. _

"But, all I really needed was for them to see your disappearance and one little address…."

My cheeks boiled in a sudden hatred from hearing their names from his mouth and the urge to hurt him rose up in my veins, my fingers curling into rather tight fists. Though, the prospect was futile and abnormal, seeing that I was bound to the floor in a foreign country, surrounded by foreign people, and never had I so much as punched someone purposefully— God knows how many times I had come close with Carlotta.

Carlotta! Was I so far gone to actually miss that red-headed diva?

"Well," he ventured to himself, "It was not _my _money, nor was it my idea."

He was the master, and I was going to die.

He knew Erik and wanted to kill him.

And Raoul… he wanted to kill Raoul as well.

He did not fund my voyage; there were others involved.

Erik and Raoul, who both had tried to kill the other at one point, were with each other, ready to walk right into this death trap.

My mind ticked off each point on a mental list, fearfully tucking it away as the wave of realization crashed onto my face, washing my hatred until it turned to hopelessness. Raoul and Erik would die. I would probably never leave here. This… this was where I would die, as well.

No burial in the Paris Cemetery by my father.

Perhaps, I would die right in this tent.

"What do you want with them? Why am I here?" My voice sounded rusted, miniscule, and miserably lacking the force I had wished to bring forth with it.

Silence.

I lifted my neck again to view this man, and then immediately regretted it. Tar-colored eyes were sizing me up, violating me with a profane stare, and then a smile spread like dough on the tanned face that held it.

There was a knot to swallow against in my throat and I ceased trying, dropping my head back down, and wishing ardently to sink beneath the ground.

Another muffled scrape of the stool on wet dirt. Feet walking forward. A shadow looming over my closed lids, the dust he kicked up sprinkling onto them.

"You know, Daae," another step near my ear so that no light breached past my shut eyes, "I do not know why my men tied you up. Wrists as thin as sticks, fingers that could break like a snap of twigs. Hardly a dangerous guest."

I shuddered as he kneeled down beside me, laughing at my reaction. It smelled of cloves, alcohol, and some identifiable bright spice. My eyes flew open when I felt his touch.

"Don't be scared, little girl!" His slick fingers untied the rags at my wrist, the red of the tent gleaming off of his shining forehead. Bile rose in my throat at the pleasure he took in seeing me squirm.

The rings knocked against my arm as he slid his finger slowly and unnecessarily up my hand and wrist, smiling the entire time. He then moved to my ankles and took the bindings from there, making a circle with his thumb, and then standing casually after as if he hadn't touched me at all. As if the right were entirely his.

"And to answer your question," the throaty voice resounded with a lifted finger, the gold of one ring glistening as if to make his point, "If you prove of use, you may be worthy of my son's hand. Leave the men to me and my… partners."

.

.

**Nadir**

**.**

**.**

Watching Erik perform legerdemain was both as mesmerizing and entirely frightening as it was the first time I had witnessed the spectacle. If you began to forget how powerful this man truly was… well, you were reminded rather quickly.

The night was as black as Erik's cloak, foggy beyond belief, with a moon obscured by grey clouds. He had found the most inconspicuously conspicuous spot—just as he had the night before—possible to perform: on a sidewalk perpendicular to the city, facing the water, near Coney Island's park, yet still far enough to avoid the touch of the lights.

It was incredibly shaming for me to repeatedly witness how completely reflexive it was for him to find curtaining shadows in the most empty of air, and then reflect back on all of the times where I had sat and grumbled about such trivial things in my life. I could walk with my face leaning towards a bright sun and meet every person beneath it. Erik… lived in a perpetually darkened solitude.

I looked away from the man, powerful and lethal, yet, in his soul, merely a child yearning for the love and acceptance he was so deprived of, and towards my pocket watch. _11:30pm, February 28__th__._

_Nine days._

The tree I leaned on was cold, its ice-prison melting, and a scant distance away from the memory-inducing performance. My eyes turned quickly back once its mesmerizing effects, all from impossibly deft hands, grew the crowd like rain drops gathering on the ground.

The money he had given to the Beaumont's was almost entirely paid back in full.

Shoulders brushed roughly upon mine as wandering passerby leaned into the darkness, wrapped themselves in it with curious eyes, and pushed pass to draw closer to the man who silently performed that which he had mastered as a boy.

Erik wore a full ebony mask that reached from his forehead to his jaw and the hood of his cloak pulled over his head so that his face was one big gaping shadow. He did not speak, but, when he did, his accent was American.

Every head followed his every movement with a dazed precision, children's mouths hanging open, and adults raising their brows to impossible heights. And, silently, money piled over the brim of the hat he had left by his polished black shoes.

Raoul stood further into the crowd, eyes wide and… really quite holding a semblance to the look he had given Erik during _Don Juan_. The revelation of seeing his incredible self-taught power and skills, fearful and very deadly. Though, the look he seared into the magician now was lacking the personal, romantic defeat. Christine was not in Erik's arms, yet the products of his illusions, though paling like a moon in comparison to his voice, granted that same sense of wonder, as if you were witnessing something never before gracing human minds.

But, Christine was not in Erik's arms.

I glanced from man to man. Different country, different dangers …same motive.

Like a steaming pot with the lid pasted on top— what would happen when we _did_ reach that girl? I was stuck in a sort of anticipation as well, to personally meet the girl who had captured the hearts of two vastly different men.

Yet, what would ensue that reunion? Who would she leave with?

A flash of red brought my eyes away from Raoul and back to Erik's nimble movements, summoning the image of blood uncomfortably to the forefront of my mind.

After the instinctive foreshadows wore off, I swallowed that fear. Erik had thankfully grown; he could have killed Raoul many times. He knew Christine would never need to know that Raoul had died by his hand. Yet, he refrained.

…Raoul had had no qualms with the prospect of killing Erik at that cemetery—or so Erik told me—and, spilled blood could rid himself of the wedge between his and Christine's relationship for good… Yet, he had seen Erik as more than a phantom. It was easy on the conscience to kill a ghost.

With a finger beneath my chin I lowered my head until my lips rested on my knuckles and continued to watch Erik's legerdemain.

I had leapt into to the role of fathering two very capricious men unknowingly, but irrevocably for the remainder of this escapade. I knew that now.

Colors of red and violet juxtaposing against his darkness sprayed, whirled, and seemed to shoot from his fingers; objects large and small vanished—no part of his attire was loose enough for him to store it—from sight, only to be conjured before you could again blink; and, then he asked for a volunteer.

_Allah, do not let this man take another wallet._

_Or a life._

The thoughts were the gloves of impulse that slammed onto my fingers whenever I was near Erik, no matter how much goodness I knew there to be in his soul. My misunderstood friend…

Erik gestured, demanded, beckoned… all with an elegant curl of his finger.

"Step right up, young man." Up from the near silent teem, full of parents restraining eager-legged children with a hand to their wrist, came just that— a young, wealthy-looking man with golden blonde hair tinted indigo by the sky, and a wide-brimmed black hat. Fear glittered in his gaze for a moment, but then it vanished and his eyes visibly relaxed before he stepped onto the sidewalk.

"Why don't you tell the audience your name," came Erik's calm voice.

"Marcus," the man stated resolutely, but, then, seeing Erik's unwavering stare, continued, "…Hammerstein."

A smirk drew itself onto the corner of my strange friend's mouth. What intrigued him? I never did know.

"Wonderful name. Any relation to the composer… Oscar, is it?"

A few of the audience members seemed to jolt out of their mesmerized trance and began to ripple with shocked laughter. Marcus turned beet red, even in darkness, but then must have realized that since his head felt lighter— his hat was gone.

He jerked his arms, "what—," Erik smiled at me, blue eyes finding mine rapidly, and straight teeth gleaming through the darkness, "sir, my hat please!" But, then his eyes widened to disks and stared at his hands, ungloved. "And my gloves! I do not enjoy being disrobed."

Erik leaned and whispered something in Marcus' ear, to which the latter froze with alarmed, brown eyes even wider than before.

The gloves were now hanging from the man's vest pocket and the hat was again perched upon his head, though fire licked at the tips of the fingers on the gloves as well as trimming the brim of the hat and the man, Marcus, smacked at his breast and tossed the flaming hat from his head.

Abruptly, resolutely, and with another small smile, Erik turned away from the audience, the expanse of his back a clear message.

Show was over.

The rustle of paper built up as the audience left tokens of their strange wonderment; from the dazed looks on their faces, I had cause to believe they would never even remember all that had transpired tonight. Sleight of hand, sleight of mind.

Marcus shook his head as if clearing it, stepped back onto the street, and then bustled off with another man.

Raoul opened and closed his mouth before looking at me like a lost child.

He was very far from home, family, and his way of living. We _all_ were far from home, but, neither Erik nor I had family, and our way of living— well, it reflected finely onto this journey. No noblemen or women to please with platitudes, or even a safe life at all, warmly protected by the good graces of others.

He was lost, indeed.

I shrugged at him and then let the click of my steps lead me to Erik.

"Erik."

"_Daroga_," he paused, "it really is interesting how quickly these simple-minded people can be entertained."

"Who was that man? What did you say to him?" Erik turned, and the mask had somehow switched back to that of flesh-toned porcelain. "I'd seen him before. He was on Christine's train. Then at Cherbourg's port. Ah, good evening Raoul, would you like to come join this conversation, or do you prefer to stand idly and uselessly over there?"

Raoul squinted his eyes in contempt at the address, but walked over to me and Erik against a store's shadowed side. "Marcus was also on our ship," Erik nodded towards Raoul, "I am assuming you _were_ listening, therefore I needn't repeat myself. I saw him often while on board—in fact, too often—but, never thought it noteworthy of relaying to you two. He and another man, John, have been in sight ever since the ship unloaded, and then they attend my grandiose performance." He rolled his eyes, "The volunteer act was a test in which he failed. I'm sure even Raoul here watched his face and saw."

Raoul closed his eyes and sighed, "Something did not sit right. He was scared. Are we to assume he took part in Christine's abduction?

"He did not." Both Raoul and I rose our eyebrows at the firmness in his voice. "I made it clear, though, just how discreet he was being. Maybe it's nothing, but I will keep watch for him."

Raoul laughed, "_That_ prospect does not seem too difficult for you." But, then, realizing the words he said, somehow, I saw a smidgeon of remorse enter his eyes before vanishing.

"No," Erik smiled coldly. "It isn't." He handed me all of the money then and looked into my eyes. He had other plans— they were written plainly like symbols in the ocean water peering back at me.

"Raoul, let's retire to one of those seaside resorts. Today the hours seemed to have stretched themselves web thin."

**Erik**

**.**

**.**

_I, myself, had truly found the finale quite …_ablaze_, if you will._

Was I now considered a pyromaniac? I seemed to enjoy ending my performances with a healthy dose of flames.

Add that to my list of terrifying quirks that make me so endearing to women.

The night was bleeding into that black stillness, my favorite time, perpetual before the sun breaks it. There was something very solemnly romantic in its impression—not that anything loving was in the cards for me; but, it was usually the closest I ever came to natural light. Events, all drawing back to Christine—the trip to the cemetery and now this transatlantic pursue—had forced me into the light more than once, but, I still felt my familiar fondness and understanding for this time of night ingrained in my being since the time I was a boy; I felt it in the way the cool air entered my senses, in the caress the dark gave my skin, a mask that I did not have to wear.

Clouds had traveled lazily across the sky and now the moon, free of its grey veil, shot a spotlight onto a man slipping into the darkened park of Coney Island.

I was following Marcus. After Raoul and Nadir left I had watched the secretive peacock part from his annoying friend, John, near an inn. So jumpy, he was, with a glance that darted faster than a beat of an excited heart.

_Whoever bribed him must've overlooked his incompetence in furtiveness. _

Being followed was not something I was fond of, so…

"Tables are turning_, monsieur,_" I whispered into the air, throwing my voice till it sounded beside his ear, smirking when Marcus turned wildly in paranoia before shaking his head and walking on.

My steps were barely audible as they followed the click of one pair of shoes on pavement past a few workers straggling back to their quarters.

Through a broken gate he entered the park. I carefully grasped the latch before it could slam shut and then proceeded to lace between trees and shrubbery in pursuit.

I was, in fact, a ghost.

The city behind Coney Island was lit, but the lights of the park and resorts lining it had already been snuffed out, providing the grounds with many, many shadows.

Marcus paused and whipped to look behind him. I ducked behind one of the horses to the large, steam-powered carousel.

Satisfied, though with a raised, suspicious eyebrow, he turned back and continued his trek.

I crept after the watercolor shadow as his blonde head rotated all around, clearly unsure of where he was going. We passed stand after stand of deserted games, a netted area with trapeze rope swinging in the breeze, restaurants, a pier along the ocean, and tents promising various attractions. But, he changed the straight-lined course we took as we reached a line of colored rope to our left, leading to darkness, and then began to walk that way.

Strangely, the trees were thicker there, like a hidden forest between a city and an ocean. It shrouded our path, was connected by the rope, and led away from the park, finally ending at… _Coney Isle's Carnival of Freaks._

The sound of my heart pounding grew until I was sure the entirety of Coney Island could hear it and I touched the rope in my cloak, rough against my arm; right next to the dagger tucked into my belt, ice against my skin.

But, I also felt _lighter_. Realization hit me like the sweet music in the wind glancing off of my mask and against my neck.

_Christine._

Her ship left before mine— she would already be here.

Marcus walked around the tent and down another thinner path and I followed at a distance, trailing my fingers against the fabric of the attraction's main tent as if to somehow prove that it held no more power over me, that I was no longer in a cage.

A high fence rose to the left, separating public from private. More tents were beyond that barrier, forming some type of gypsy, familial grouping of living quarters.

It was too similar… like a sinister nightmare creeping out from my mind; and, abruptly, I felt no larger than the boy who was called the Devil's child.

Suddenly, I saw the bars clearly, _myself _clearly, Javert clearly… and my eyes clenched shut to cease the swirling.

I dug my fist into my side until pain was felt. No past emotions could interfere right now— I would not allow it.

With eyes forced to ignore the past and look at what lay before me callously, I watched where my unknowing companion stepped next; towards the tents. Most were still and dark; but, a larger, maroon one stood off to the side with a dull light.

Marcus walked toward that one. I would have followed, but Christine… _Christine came first._

The peacock would be hunted down and interrogated later.

Time spread slowly during my search until finally I reached a red and white striped tent, dirty, and—though the familiarity in the shape, color, and placement must've been coincidental—aside from the others.

_Yet, it was just as mine had been. Every terrible detail._

Coincidence… it had to be. I shoved the thoughts into the back of my mind.

Everything was silent, but somehow I _felt _that she was in there, as if a lonely soul residing behind the thin, billowing walls called out to mine in a clear voice.

I reached the tent with steps full of eager purpose, silently pulled back the flap, and froze, an ache in my chest spreading and my breathing slow and uneven past parted lips.

It was dark, but the lights from the city drew through the fabric and casted a dull, yet ethereal glow onto a very slim form with porcelain skin and wild, curling hair. She was asleep.

_My angel._

I wanted to rush in and hold Christine, protect her, but, so aberrant to all of my instincts, I had failed to see the gypsy sleeping upright in a chair directly beside me, holding a knife in his unconscious grasp.

He could be taken care of later, though I did have to remain soundless.

The opening of the tent closed behind me with a silent whoosh and I was suddenly trapped and overcome by Christine's presence. After so _long—_

Her cot was feeble and hard, and she shivered in her dreams. A slit through the fabric in one corner of the tent let in a cold, night breeze. With a shaking gloved hand I took the covers that had slid down to her calves and moved them up as far as they would go, to her waist. Kneeling beside her, I praised the sight before me like one pays respect to a queen—the rise and fall of her chest, her insurmountable beauty, the thick lashes that tickled pink cheeks.

I was a blind man that had been granted with sight. Losing her so abruptly… made seeing her, feeling her warmth and life, such a miracle to a devil edged in sin. My bleeding soul was rejoined by its missing half in a silent unity created by just one look at the one I feared that, because of all of my sinful deeds, I would never see again.

The fear that had been seething beneath the surface, forcefully held back by will, for the length of the trip rose up suddenly like a serpent that which the notion of Christine, alive and in front of me, slayed mercilessly.

It was then, in that quiet, furtive moment set in a foreign land where all good and evil lay asleep and unaware, that I was reminded the depth of my love for Christine Daae.

Every one of my senses pulled me towards her, to close any distance there ever was between us, and I could not resist, nor did I wish to; my face pulled down to hers and I brushed my lips against her marbled forehead, as soft as a whisper, feeling her curls brush the tip of my nose. It was not a kiss. I could never kiss her unaware… _I could never kiss her at all_, but it was as much as I allowed myself to give. Her skin on my lips was forbidden, the sweetness brutally reminding me off that fact, and I moved my head back quickly, clearing it with a shake as if I had been singed there. And, yet, the touch gave _me_ comfort, though it was meant to console and assure her in some way of the rescue, of my _love—_

Christine's lip quirked and one of her arms reached blindly in her dreams, clearing my mind of any coherent thought. It was torture— the flooding happiness was torture. She was _sleeping_ and did not even know a presence existed outside of her blissful unconsciousness. Yet, no nightmares seemed to form from my touch's leak into her subconscious.

I studied her face, watching the curve in her lip remain, her brows still calm.

Before her raised hand, an inch from my face, could drop like a weight and wake the gypsy I closed my fingers around hers gently and placed her arm back at her side, keeping my hand feather light upon hers as I looked back at the nuisance of a guard, fighting back every blood-filled memory attempting to siege my mind at just his resemblance to those who had held me captive.

Kill the gypsy silently… a quick slit of the throat would suffice. But, before I could even unhinge the dagger from my belt, I heard them. Voices, several of them, were coming towards the tent. Through the fabric I saw the fiery orb of a torch grow steadily in size, its light painting shadowed silhouettes on the cloth surrounding all sides of the dirt ground, trapped air, and three people within.

The chances of killing _all_ of them were slim… it would_ not_ be quiet and I knew how many gypsies lived in a camp to know the magnitude of what would ensue the raucous. Even if I was to attack the guard and slip Christine through the corner's slit, she would be drowsy— carrying her… I closed my eyes, my fingers now resting next to hers, almost touching. We would be too slow, too loud. The gypsies would surround immediately and play their twisted games.

Time was ticking and I weighed the possible options with exacting precision, all of which leading to failure. My own warning to Raoul and Nadir, staying low to attain the upper-hand, burst into my mind and I grimaced. All I yearned to do was silence every inhabitant of the camp that had touched Christine and take her in my arms to safety, but my own genius would be clouded to attempt anything now.

The voices grew louder and I stood, my heart breaking at having to leave part of my soul behind to face even another instant of captivity. Nadir, Raoul, and I would set a plan to action. We would get her out at the next moment possible.

_I promise, Christine._

They would have already hurt her by now if they planned to. I knew their ways.

The imprint of a man pushed into the fabric of the tent, laughing throatily with others and I winced, grabbed the glittering ring from my vest pocket, tucked it inside Christine's sleepy fist, and disappeared through the ripped corner the second the front of the tent opened.

**Christine**

**.**

**.**

Dawn trickled through my tattered, flimsy prison in violet and watery yellow, trying to reach the drowsy, blurred sight so notorious to newly opened eyes, finally awake from a deep sleep.

The dream… it was slipping through my fingers like water but I remained laying on the cot and staring at the drooping ceiling, trying to remember the bits and pieces.

Last night I had dreamt of the opera house, alive and bright in springtime. Everyone was smiling, dancing, and my skin had tingled with happiness from the man on my arm, leading me through the foyer past every familiar face. Strangely, I could never see him when I turned to look, but I had felt his hand on mine clearly.

If one could live in a dream…

I moved my hand to clear the hair from my face, but felt something cold and rough between my fingers.

The other hand lifted from my side to rub my lethargic lids and I sat up, turning my palm over.

Silver and diamond… **_my ring_**_—_

Forgetting my tiredness I leapt from the bed with eyes rivaling the sun in roundness, thanking God that I was alone, my waking mind finally registering what it meant—the only thing it could mean.

Erik had found me… _last night. _He had placed the ring in my grasp… _last night._

Confusion drew my brow to the center; why did he leave me here? Wandering eyes searched the tent, waiting for it to answer my question—yes, waiting for inanimate objects to speak came along with solitary confinement and cold-shouldered captors—and, it did. Well, not vocally.

A plethora of markings on the ground, made from the many steps of large boots, told me exactly why, and I prayed avidly in that moment that Erik had made it out undetected.

Finding me was a terrible danger; Erik was foolish for entering these grounds! _But_, I stared at the ring as if it were a newborn, _he was not foolish_.

And, after all that I did to him, he did it for me.

….

I was allowed to wander where I pleased, a message brought by my _jovial_ guard, but was not, by any means, permitted to leave the side of Selina. The rules were easy to abide and I, with the ring safely in an inner-pocket to my skirts, sat on a small chair, one leg bent beneath me, watching the sun draw up on an invisible string.

"I was not allowed to see you," she spoke suddenly, arranging a colorful wrap around her head and applying kohl liner to the rims of her eyes, "I am surprised they let you stay with me again. They don't seem to trust me." She looked towards a point in the distance, a worry line creasing between her strong brows.

"Was it something I did?" We were in a tent with only a top held by poles, a table beneath it full of props for Selina's act. The gypsies were waking, fabric of the tents rustling against the packed-dirt ground. The snow was almost entirely melted here, trees sighing in the breeze at their newfound freedom from the ice. I pulled my wrap tighter around my shoulders against the chilled morning breeze.

She laughed, "No, no. Though I am surprised you would even care. I am with the men who took you from your home."

I took the piece of kohl on the table and traced it curiously along my finger, remembering Meg applying it for me before we went on stage. I never had a steady hand.

Meg's mischievous smile, blonde curls that curtained in short wisps across her forehead and then grew in length to tuck behind her ears, framing blue eyes always alight to bring me out of my most dismal moods_… _

_I missed her terribly._

"You are so different from them," my gazed turned earnestly towards hers, "It was your kindness that kept me from completely falling apart. And, I thank you for doing so even when it cost you."

Selina gave a faint smile of her maroon-rouged lips, "My father owed Emilian, the leader of this camp, and, to compensate, I was forced to serve as a servant during the journey of retrieving you. The men are his sons—pigs, more like. They thought I was too lenient with you."

The bruises, the insults, the grossly possessive way they spoke about her… they were awful pigs. And I had not helped, sneaking out into the cold and giving myself a near-fatal fever.

Fatal…

"Are they going to kill me? He… Emilian mentioned it, but then spoke of marriage between me and one of his sons." I paused as the memory of his words flooded back from where I had shoved them away, placing my hands into fists against my lap, feeling the outline of the ring hidden there._ "Why?"_

She lowered her eyes quickly before raising them back. "I don't see why they would—Emilian is cruel and he raised his sons that way as well, but they aren't without morals. You are not who they have ill will with. And about marriage… he may only mean to scare you."

"But Emilian does," I started, "have ill will with Erik and Raoul?"

Selina looked troubled at this and then bit her lip, "I know no more than you… only that they're the ones being lured."

_Lured. _Like into a trap. And I was the bait.

_Always the bait. _

_Always suspended in uncertainty._

Instead of letting the panicky nerves run wild, dragging me back down into hopelessness—the frightening doubt that I would leave here unharmed or with my virtue intact—I honed in on the next thing I saw: Selina's thin fingers sorting through cards.

Quickly I spoke, "What are those?" She paused and turned around, her hair whooshing like an ebony sheet against her back.

"Tarot cards… come on, I will give you a reading—it's not heresy, so I will not hear protest! You need a distraction and the park is not yet open."

And, taking me by the hand, I was led off to her tent.

….

Candles within cast brilliant orange light against the tapestries and magnified their colors of purple and red with a golden glow, turning the carved features of Selina more pronounced with shadow. It smelled of incense and a small table, covered by a black velvet drape, sat between us.

"Tarot cards do not tell the future, nor do they give answers. They provide insight, through symbolism, to the feelings and events in your life—another perspective to your situation."

At what must've been the disbelief and wariness on my face, she added, "If anything, you can ignore the world outside of this tent and tell me about yourself."

I nodded, "what am I to do then?"

The cards were in my hands; I was to shuffle them. They were large and awkward, my pale fingers foreign against such vivid gold and red of the emblem on the back of each. The emblem was swirled, but almost appeared to be a scripted 'E.'

"Place the deck on the table… Good, now I want you to place both hands over the deck and _feel_. Transmit all of your emotions from your mind, through your arms, to the tips of your fingers, and then into the cards. Every unspoken question, tormented wondering, deepest emotion… close your eyes and let the cards _feel,"_ her voice was smooth and dark, graced with a culture I did not understand, but I obeyed instantly, feeling the cool deck beneath my fingers and blocking out the world by simply closing my eyes.

_My father's death, the lonely bereavement after; my Angel of Music, the immense joy he brought, like a light in the darkness, and the voice he created from one once dispassionate; seeing Raoul again, like a key to the world I had willingly left behind, a handsome childhood friend who finally noticed me after my debut but knew not of how much I had since changed; discovering that each of the dreams where I wished my Angel to be a man were realities, and then letting him hold me in a world untouched by anything but music; his, Erik's, rage after I tore off his mask reminding me, from drastically different behavior than I never knew to be laced with him, of the deceit he had pulled as posing as an angel, frightening me as I lay on the stone floor, swathed in his curses, but also touching my heart as I realized that he was afraid of me—afraid that I would abhor his face and despise him as had all others—and that he was alone, just as I; the betrayal at the murder of Buquet, the body plummeting to the stage; how my mind was torn in half, remembering the beauty of Erik and the newfound darkness, and then letting Raoul comfort me on that snowy roof, away from death and the one who had just moments before left me a blooming red rose; the awful silence for those three months, engaged to Raoul, but hopelessly deprived of the man who used to be my sole companion, and the awful silence of not understanding why the feelings were felt; the Bal Masque on New Year's Eve, when I saw Erik again as Red Death, fearful and powerful, drawing me towards him closer and closer in what could only have been _longing_, before he vanished with my ring; the betrayal of the bait I was to become, the utter terror at finding no way out of the bars of uncertainty I was trapped in; then Don Juan, letting my heart sing for my bedridden mind, knowing it was Erik, knowing I was to betray him, but losing all interest in doing so; the sudden rip of the mask; the crashing chandelier; the heart-wrenching choice; the kiss; the departure; the return; the kidnapping; the journey; and, the destination where now everything, again, was uncertain. _

After what must have been hours, I opened my eyes and finally felt the hot tears that were streaming down my cheeks and onto my neck. It was as if I had relived every moment, diving head-first into the most confusing and tragic of events that now seemed so far away.

Selina nodded her head softly, green eyes glinting in the candlelight, "Very well… let's begin."

She quickly placed three cards in an upright arc from the top of the deck, each rectangle of gold staring me down intensely.

"Choose one."

I had no idea how or why, but without even thinking, my hand reached for the second card and flipped it over. A man was pictured on the other side, hanging by his foot from a tree, a yellow sun behind his head and vines twisting around the lettering— _The Hanged Man._

"What does this mean?" A hanged man… that couldn't be good. And, though I did not believe the cards had any levity, I suddenly began to dread what the answer may be.

Selina closed her eyes and spoke softly in her calming accent, "The first card represents your past… not necessarily a past far back, but of any moment prior to this one. The Hanged Man, or woman, had an interesting journey. This card tells me that you are selfless and spiritual through meditation—which means prayer for your religion."

My times in the chapel, praying to my father. I nodded my head at this, though she could not see me.

"You have been entranced fully before, though much suspense has filled that entrancement."

Entranced… entranced by Erik, of his mystery. Then the suspense of not knowing what would happen next, of not knowing what surprise awaited—both in the opera house and in my emotions.

"In the past you _did_ turn towards submission, then committed a sacrifice of devotion, and then a revelation came like the sun behind the head of the hanged man."

Submission… I submitted to Raoul's plan at _Don Juan, _then sacrificed the life I would have had with him and chose Erik with a kiss, but what was the revelation?

"A revelation…?"

That I was a tormenting figure to all who knew me? A mirthless laugh escaped in a breath before Selina's next words cut it short.

"The Hanged Man's card is about opening one's mind and overcoming preconceptions. That you chose this card tells me that, through much cogitation, you have done both."

No… my previous thought made no sense then if that were true.

Selina opened her eyes and sat back in her chair, gesturing with her hand for me to pick another.

I stared at the remaining two cards as if they were made of a million sharp points, and then, not knowing how else to react, chose the one on the right.

_The Tower—_on the card was… a monolithic tower of grey against a black sky; but, fire was bursting from its windows, a crown was tipping off of the top, and a man and a woman were falling, heels barely missing the lightning that struck the stone behind them. The picture was both beautiful and fearful, and somehow the girl… seemed to look like me; hair of dark russet curls, widened eyes of chocolate, and skin the color of the pale moon behind the entire scene.

I looked up quickly, a question right on my tongue, "Did someone paint these?"

"Yes, I was told a young boy was the artist behind these cards. He was not a gypsy, but traveled with the camp some time before I was born. My father was several years older than him at the time, but never will he tell me the story. I do not know his name."

_The 'E' on the emblem… beautiful and fearful._

_I knew his name. _ I felt it like a whisper in my ear. It was him… it _had_ to be.

Though, how could he paint me before we even met? That was not possible!

And, Erik traveled with these gypsies? But, why would he…

What Meg told me about Madame Giry after I confessed my time with the famed phantom burst into my mind— _she told me once of a man she knew that lived beneath the opera house. She had rescued him from some tragedy when they were young and hid him away in the cellars._

And then the scars I saw on him when I ministered to his wounds… very old scars, scattered around his shoulders and chest. The empty cages I had seen when passing a tent along with the others holding the animals whose sounds I previously imagined to be from the woods… Had he ever been in one?

Oh, Erik… tears built up silently behind my eyes and I swallowed over a knot, running my fingers gently over the hand-painted cards in front of me.

"They're very beautiful."

Selina tilted her head to the side and I cut in quickly before questions could be asked, "Tell me what this one means."

"Please," I whispered.

"This card represents the present. Unexpected catastrophe, upheaval, being cast from your snug world—stability has left you, and comfort and confidence are distant memories right out of your reach. New beginnings have come, but they were by necessity and not choice. Some interpret the lightning bolt as striking the seeker—you—with true love or irresistible passion, though I do not know much about you to decipher if that is accurate."

"Mm," I turned, distracted by her words, to where the flap of the tent was blowing softly in the breeze, showing a strip of the dismal grey morning against the rich, and now threatening, purples and reds inside.

_Does he know? That he is rescuing me from this place that must have irrevocably scarred him?_

It explained so very much that my head felt as if it would burst.

"You are in love," she ventured, the words more resolute than inquiring, and my head snapped up towards her peering, bottle green gaze, my own eyes wide at who was in my mind as she said that.

"What? Yes. No. I am not sure…" the ring brushed against my leg as I shifted from my tucked position and I closed my eyes to the arrow-pointed thoughts jamming against the sides of my mind.

I suddenly felt like a child, guilty somehow, but unable to lie or form a coherent response to the imposing, foreign governess— the only one I now did not fear knowing what they had done to him. Raoul had mentioned something once, after the Bal Masque, but at my interest in the topic of Erik, he had grown vague and swallowed his words. He had brought up his past, though I am not sure who the source was that told him… how Erik was abused somewhere away from home as a young boy. I think Raoul was trying to understand Erik, a moment of compassion and confusion towards someone he thought heartless—I don't think he realized I was there until I had pressed for him to continue.

But, it all fit. It all terribly fit.

"So, you are torn, I assume, between Erik and Raoul? I would imagine that is why you were used as bait—because they both love you."

My thoughts plummeted back through time.

_Christine, I love you, _from Raoul on the roof, his warm hand leading me back into the opera house, snow dusting his hair and a smile on his face at my acceptance to his proposal; from Erik sitting by his music box with a monkey dressed in gypsy robes, one tear dripping down his face and stature utterly defeated, knowing I was still leaving but holding his hands out and on top of each other where mine previously had been, over the ring and in-between his gentle grasp.

"Yes," my voice was barely heard by my own ears, and I knew not which of Selina's statements I was agreeing with.

"Then, maybe we should look at the card that gives insight to your future… to your decisions. Unless you do not want to hear it?"

The last card remained and now, frightfully aware of the accuracy they beheld, but anticipating what the future may bring, I flipped it over to stare at… well, the card was upside-down. Somehow, I knew that was of significance so, with squinted eyes, I read the inscription as it was instead of righting the position of it on the table—_Death._ It was a card of death, a grim reaper mounted upside-down on a white upside-down horse.

Before fear could travel up my spine, Selina interjected, "Do not fear this card—it does not mean you will die. Though we all will eventually, the card holds a different message, especially being reversed."

She breathed deeply, "There is something that should die, but will not. You will not be able to move on. The past will come back and something that was lost will be found. If this card represents another, the relationship could be dangerous, but it will be from passion. The feeling you thought lost, will be found."

I stood up and took the few steps away from the table, my hands against my chest to calm its turbulent rise and fall, the daggers of thoughts penetrating further and further.

"Christine, who is Raoul to you? You don't have to tell me things about him that you fear I may use against him by telling the others, but what do you feel for him?"

Conjuring up the image of his tawny hair and green eyes, I began, "he… he was my friend as a young child, but had to leave with his family after a few summers. He came back this past year and… well, he is very handsome and kind. But, much time had passed and we both had changed a great deal, and he never really saw that, which was frustrating. Something terrible happened where I am from and he was the picture of safety and constancy, so I realized that he would give me a life of stability, and we became engaged. He could provide for me and love me… he's very familiar and a wonderful gentleman, there for me whenever I need him." I turned at the last word and slowly came to sit back down, my steps uneven though the ground was flat.

Selina's eyebrow rose, though she kept her voice steady, "And, Erik?"

Shaking my head, "Erik was there for me during a time no one else could be… a guardian angel almost," I laughed quietly, "but, he lied to and deceived me and that cut my heart. I trusted him. There are many layers to him… he apologized, and I did forgive him. To me… he's dangerous, but harmless; hateful, but loving; different, but entirely the same as I in many ways. Lonely."

My eyebrow drew to the center, but the words stemmed from somewhere other than my mind, and I did not plan on stopping them, "Erik is sort of a mystery that is frightening to uncover, and he has caused much devastation, but I can never seem to rid him from my mind. God knows I have tried. His jealousy over Raoul's interest in me turned him into someone very unfamiliar, and that scared me, but… he loves me. Every action was laced with love for me, and does love not make us all a little mad?"

I closed my mouth and realized that I was, again, standing. My cheeks felt flushed and my heart was beating rapidly, my mind only now running over every word that had left my lips.

"Are you sure, then," Selina began carefully, "that you have not already had your revelation?"

.

.

.

**Food for thought, Christine… food for thought. As always, please leave what you think! Revisions are slow-going but if you know of any inconsistencies, do let me know! **


	12. Chapter 12

**Rewind— Erik is just leaving Christine's tent. Then we'll find out all that happens to him throughout the night up until his time parallels to Christine's little tarot card session from the last chapter. And… then we'll go from there. Good? Okay. Read on, faithful phriends. **

**Erik**

**.**

**.**

There was as little time as the slivered tick between the next second and my next heartbeat for me to meld into the darkness and slip behind a thick tree before the moving, black shadows could touch mine. The ones seen from the inside of the tent had not been deceiving—the gypsies had surrounded and, had I not left the moment I did, would have surrounded me as well.

I adopted the stillness and silence that always allowed me to stand _right_ near a person, completely oblivious to my presence, at the opera house, and waited patiently as two gypsies searched behind the tent, coming only a breath away from the tree I stood behind, fruitfully planning murder. Then, after they walked around the tent and to the front, I stepped away from said tree and let my ears find their blind target, staring at the silhouette of Christine as she escaped from her waking nightmare in a dream-filled sleep. I hoped the dreams gave her refuge, but wished even more to be able to hold her and sing as I always have since she was a child. Almost the same age as Vivienne.

On one hand I could count the number of people in my life right now, and they were _all_ in a state of peril.

"This is our invaluable trap, my sons… Christine Daae. I am proud of you for bringing her here."

Something about his voice caused my shoulders to stiffen… Where had I heard it? A snort sounded before being followed by a low, breathy voice, halting my train of thought, "A lot of work for such a petite girl—"

"Yeah, but it was no work to look at her," piped up another whose larynx I wished to crush between my fingers with a blazing passion. My nails beneath my gloves gripped the tree at my side tightly to anchor myself to the spot I stood seething. These were the animals who took her, and the leader, clearly, was their father. All of who would die at my hand. But, not yet. _Not yet, _I scolded myself and every aching desire to rip from my spot and kill the ones guilty, damn the consequences.

"Yoska, you're the oldest, _and_ you were the one to actual figure her high value when you visited the Popu… Populay, or whatever the hell it's called. I have decided that you will marry her—"

Protest was then heard by the third son's voice out of Hell knows how many others, followed by a distinct smack, and I gripped the catgut, raked my hand roughly from the tree, and began to pace violently. _I am the Angel of Death! It does not matter how many stand there. Christine will not marry—_ I froze as still as the trees surrounding my shadow as the words of the master silenced his son and streamed right to my ears, breaking the thin sheet of ignorance I had been wrapped in with my focus solely on Christine.

"We will avenge your uncle— my _brother._ And your cousin. Your aunt is firm in this matter. I have decided that you will marry her right before we kill our Devil's Child so that he may suffer first."

_Come… come and see the Devil's Child. _

And then the pieces fell in place behind my eyes, where the inhumanly genius mind that never _used_ to fail me was supposed to dwell, like thick drops of blood.

Only from one other man had I heard that same throaty voice, as deep as the pit of Hell they both crawled from. Javert's brother.

And then I slipped back up the path, gripping the cowl to my cloak and pulling it so that I might breathe, biting the inside of my cheek to stop the scream from my throat. _Yoska… _I knew him. I knew all of them.

_How had I been so blind?_

My eyes whipped wildly about towards every tent, my head spinning as I stumbled forward until I fell to my knees in front of the one that held the animals. The cages… _mine. Just like mine. _And then, suddenly, the entire camp was a cage; the trees shooting up and turning into bars, the packed earth splattering with my blood, every sound morphing into the jeers that would jam mercilessly into the sides of my brain _every single day__._

They had changed the name of this Hell… but it was still my Hell.

I glared at the bars seen through the bristling tent material, mentally trying to singe the sight away from existence, wishing for the aid of morphine, or, better yet, the drug of Christine's eyes—_anything._

_Never the left side, _Javert's son had said to another man during one round of torture, and all for refusing to sing that night. No matter whom he addressed, the words had dripped towards me in deliberation. _He must remember what a creature of Hell he is. The left side must stay as beautiful as an angel itself while the right will curse all who feast their eyes on it— the Devil's child. _They had rasped in laughter then, turning nails in a fire with a stoker as I gripped the bars behind me, as if somehow it would hurt less that time if I braced myself.

Those vagabond demons had actually altered my deformity; where it once had looked more like a sunken corpse, they had cut and scarred until it was reddened and marred just as the name of my attraction promised.

I slapped a hand to my mask and stared up at the moon, letting the light sear the tears of hatred away before they had even a moment to form.

Of course, **_I should have known this all along_**. Why would gypsies have taken Christine if not from something of my doing? I had thought… hoped that they were just doing the dirty work for some rich, dictatorial man who had ill will with her father before he died, or something… But, even that had been a feeble thought to assuage the boundless number of past sins that could have been coming back to haunt me, taking the one I would not be able to live without.

And, it was the sin that gave me my life, though a sad excuse for one, back that had retaliated. Then there was my sin of scarred, defensive impulse. Killing Javert's son… he had been in Paris less than two years ago. It was a humid summer night and I had woken from a particularly vivid nightmare, went aboveground to get air, and ran into one of the lead roles drunk in the alleys, thinking I was still sleeping for the coincidence to be that cruel. I had not slept any easier after the murder; the memories would not leave. But, I had tried.

None of my sins resurfaced from the times I had buried my conscious, blackened my heart, and slipped away from humanity and emotion… the ones where I detached myself from morality, thinking _for a monster like me was never treated as more than an animal, cared for in the least, so why should I even blink when taking another's life_? I had grown from the man I once was in Persia, but that did not wipe all of the destruction I had left in my wake. No, the sins that struck back, killing Javert and then ending the life of his son… I was barely ten years old and saving myself from being raped. For his son— I had failingly tried to destroy the past that haunted like the phantom I became.

Raped…

They wanted Christine to _marry _that… that—

I strode quickly back the way I came, forcing away the memories that edged my eyesight, and to my alcove of trees.

And then my adrenaline became redirected at the sound of a whining British man, cut off by… Emilian. The brother was Emilian. I pulled the name from the most buried dwelling of my subconscious. He had screamed to the gendarmes when seeing his brother's corpse. Antoinette and I had barely escaped.

"Thank you for your continued services, Marcus. Your concerns are noted." Then with a grunted farewell, the blonde materialized around the corner of the tent, held his hat down on his head, and began to run quickly in my direction.

Having missed the rest of the conversation during my trip down nightmare's bloodied lane, I followed the trembling man back the way we came after he passed my hiding spot, trying to tremble less than he, feeling the strain of leaving Christine like a tortured pull at my heart and the revelation of knowing what camp I stood in like a clamp squeezing off my supply of air.

But, then it snapped with the distance, I clenched my eyes shut against the torrential thoughts, and forcefully assumed a cool demeanor void of emotions to, again, follow my peacock.

The moment we left the Carnival of _Freaks _and finished the venture up the path, I grabbed him roughly by the shoulder and drew a dagger to his throat, the moon glinting off of it and into his horrified, blanching face. The catgut was saved for murder. This… was only an interrogation. Maybe.

His eyes widened to perfect circles and I felt his pulse hammer beneath my fingers; Marcus was as silent as I was, looking down at the knife in my hand and back up to the path of safety ahead.

"Make one move and you'll be dead before the next breath. Are we clear?" I hissed in his ear.

I waited before almost laughing in my maddened state—he'd have to move to nod.

"Good. I know you heard my threat earlier tonight. Now, explain. _Why_," I shifted the dagger to the side slightly and watched a bead of blood, black in the dark, drip slowly down his pale neck, trying to ignore the memory of how much I used to shed at the hands of those from a carnival only steps away, "did you run to your gypsy friends the moment after? What are they bribing that you would ignore my warning?" I cursed inwardly at how my voice wavered on 'gypsy,' but Marcus did not seem to notice.

His brown irises bore into mine from the tightest corner of his eyes and I sighed, easing the dagger a modicum, "Speak up."

He responded quickly, voice barely a wheeze, "They took my sister… grabbed me right when I got off the boat and told me… said I had to follow you and report back… they'll… kill her if I don't."

"What are they planning? What did Emilian tell you before you came running up here?" My voice was urgent, every new piece of information growing more scattered.

"They are going to have… the girl sing tomorrow night as an attraction." He glanced down at the dagger still gracing his throat on each syllable. I did not move it. "They plan on you attending… and they will get," He tried to move his head backwards," the both of you there."

I squinted my eyes, thoroughly confused, and then moved the dagger, keeping my hand in an iron grip on his shoulder and the blade only a couple inches from his throat lest he needs _coaxing _again, before moving from his back and walking around to stand face-to-face. _Both of you?_

"Well," I paused in thought, watching his chest heave while I determined his fate. I _would _have to kill him. He was the gypsies' spy… I could not have him telling them my every move. No matter how hidden I remain they must know of Nadir and Raoul. Even someone more dim-witted than him could keep tabs on one of three people. And, hadn't I learned enough to continue on my own?

My jaw clenched in resolve, my fingers twitching, but right as I moved the dagger closer to slice a clean line, an idea shot up from the shadows, seeming to come from the gentle lips of Christine herself, and stopped me. Marcus let out a large breath that blew coolly onto my exposed wrist at the sight of his death inching away from his neck.

"I will find your sister." His eyes turned to saucers again and I continued, "But you are going to help me as well."

"But, you just tried to kill me," his voice faded behind me as I began to walk away, footsteps heard stumbling after mine. _Yes, _I snarled savagely at my restraint, _I certainly did. _But, then again, I reminded myself, he was valuable. It pained me to say with the dagger still tucked in my palm, yet I needed him to further my plan. Not that I would ever admit that. Reliance was a weakness easily exploited.

"My name is Erik," I held out a gloved hand mockingly and bowed at the waist, "though you knew that." His slackened mouth closed abruptly. The man hadn't even wiped the blood from his neck yet. "You will tell the gypsies what I wish you to and, in turn, I will uphold my promise to find your sister. Can you tell me anything about why they might've taken her?" My voice was bored, though my mind still worked tirelessly to try and calm the jumping heart of my ten-year-old self.

Marcus cleared his throat and then winced, finally brushing up his neck with his thumb and feeling for the nick there, "There's a man… I do not know his name, but he's after your friend, Raoul." I laughed but he continued over the sound, staring at the knife I twirled slowly in my hand, "The gypsies are helping him, doing the dirty work, I suppose, because he's giving them the money… to capture you." At this, he looked heavenward, as if searching for the reason as to why anyone would attempt that. I could not help the rush of superiority that fit itself onto my strangely vain head like a crown. That was how I ran the Populaire— terror in the most cunning and gratifying of forms. Enough of it to induce submission. Thriving on superiority was always better than facing the reality of my _pathetic_ life, so, I wore untouchable power like a mask. An unbidden frown drew onto my face at the heavy memory of those disillusions underneath the opera house and it became an effort to actually listen to the words coming from Marcus' mouth. "My sister is married to a relative of Raoul's—I've never met him—but they are using her to hurt the De Chagny family and force my cooperation in following the both of you."

Gallant, noble Raoul, religiously wearing a cross from his neck, and his head was wanted on a stick as well? What could he _possibly_ have done…?

"Where are they keeping your sister?" I was suddenly very glad that I had not disposed of him. He was a pawn in this, but one with more information than I had previously suspected.

He paused, sizing up my sincerity, then spoke warily. "Underground somewhere, most likely nearby," My eyes began to scan the earth beneath us vigorously as he continued, "after I was told of her captivity, one of the gypsies slipped and made some crude joke about him taking a quick visit beneath the trees to see her. They—"

"Found it." Marcus gaped openly at me as I walked over to a nearby tree. A thin, square outline was illuminated by the moon, part of the trap door covered in a mound of melting snow. Close to their gypsy cohorts, but out of plain sight to ensure a wandering child won't stumble upon it. I wasn't called trap-door lover for any sexual innuendo.

With my sleeve I wiped the snow and then pushed off the frozen leaves, looking out at the park in the near-distance as I felt around for the latch and padlock. "It's locked," came a voice over my shoulder. I turned slowly to face him. "Thank you, Marcus," I intoned.

I slipped my hand into my deep breast-pocket and produced a pocket-knife, flipped out the hairpin—courtesy of Carlotta's dressing room table— I had installed to use for picking my way through the Populaire, and then set to work on the rusted padlock by the light of the fading moon.

Within minutes I heard a click and a grin of triumph spread on my face. I dug my fingers into the faint outline on the ground and then pulled with my other hand on the latch, a square a few feet wider than my shoulders ripping out of place, crumbles of ice slipping into the black abyss below.

"We're going in there?" Marcus spoke with clear trepidation. I looked at him, realizing that not all lived in the dark bowels of an opera house, and sighed. "Yes. Do you want to find your sister?" Without waiting for a response, I reached into my cloak and pulled out a small box of matches, lit one with a scraping strike, and then watched a steep set of stairs form beneath me as the glow of the orange light grew and tumbled downwards. At his questioning glance, I smirked.

"You did not think that the fire that blazed on your garments came from my fingers, did you?"

….

An infinite amount of steps later, after threatening Marcus Hammerstein the same number of times, and led by the wavering light of a match, we reached level ground. He was trembling by that point from the chill, and most likely from being trapped with the one who had nearly killed him, but I felt comforted.

I was still, of course, a rat scurrying to darkness.

Apparently, whatever gypsy son had infiltrated my opera house had relayed more of my tricks than I had previously thought. Or it was just some sick coincidence. The corridor we walked almost felt like a parallel universe, as if I was still in France, on my way to Christine's dressing room. The thought was puerile, but the fingers of my mind grasped onto it to calm my heart and blind my eyes as to where I really was: still in close proximity with the gypsy camp that had set my self-hating life in stone, sadistically nailed in place by a hammer handed blindly to them by my cold, unloving mother.

No… I was just on my way to Christine's dressing room.

Never mind the arbitrary circus props, spare carousel horses leaning against the wall, rolls of netting, faded posters of previous performers and attractions dragging past the meager, orange light, illuminating solely to mock me…

I glared coldly into the marble eye of one porcelain horse as we passed.

"Do you both love that woman, or something? You and Raoul?"

The look I flashed with a turn of my head must've been made all the more murderous by the yellow light of the match to shadow my masked face, and Marcus closed his mouth so quickly that I heard his teeth. Yet, my peacock opened his mouth right back up, "I was just making small talk… does this tunnel not unnerve you in the least?"

His strides clicked behind me as I calmed my breathing—though, this time from bloodlust—and flexed the hand not holding the Punjab, letting the match fall to the floor and douse us in darkness. "No, it does not, and I suggest that you do not further bring up Miss Daae. Christine. You must be ecstatic, knowing her name now." I smiled acerbically back at Marcus, though he could not see it, remembering him flustered, lusting, to his companion, John, about the sinuous lady with the netting covering one-third of her face.

Marcus' breathing became infuriatingly loud and he whispered more quietly than the actual godforsaken sound of his lungs, "You heard that. I… I did not—"

"Who is your father in all of this? Why are you here in the first place?"

He paused. "My father, the _wonderful_ impresario, owns this strip of land, so technically almost all of Coney Island. He asked me to visit, but I planned on just going to the city before—"

"Silence." I halted abruptly and then felt the boy's chest slam into my back. There was a sound ahead… muffled, but decidedly feminine.

With my heightened eyesight, I squinted and then bent down, picking up a small pebble. I threw it in the direction of the sound, gently but with enough force to figure the distance. Sure enough, a tiny ping sounded as the pebble met a solid surface. I pulled Marcus that way by the arm, feeling along the wall until it met a corner, and then drew my fingers along the obvious outline of a door. Male voices were heard as well, and so was the female's, still muffled but definitely louder. Directly beyond the door.

I grabbed Marcus' wrist and directed his finger along the outline of the door so that he understood. He leaned forward until his head touched the surface, the small bump making me cringe, and then stepped back, his arm shaking slightly as I dragged him back to the distance we had safely talked earlier. I then asked in a low voice, "Was it her?"

Light wasn't necessary to make out the distracted nod of his head. So, subsequently, still pulling him like a puppet, and after grabbing the match I had dropped from the ground, we treaded back on the stretching minutes—my other hand was plastered over his mouth since his tactile desperation to speak, thrashing and very, very angry, threatened to expose us to Coney Island like a beacon of light—until the glow of the moon was seen glancing upon the first couple steps; I had propped the trap door up ever so slightly to ensure we wouldn't be locked in. Marcus was seething by the time we crawled back out and into fresh air, looking as if he wanted to slam the door on my fingers as I closed and locked it, setting it up exactly as it had been before with the leaves and mound of dirty snow.

"What the hell was that? You said you would save her!"

I peered tiredly at his reddened cheeks before responding, "That promise has not been revoked." I traced the line aboveground that we had traversed belowground with my eyes until it ended at a tall building in the distance, matching the distance and direction we had walked the tunnel. "She is in what must be the cellars to that building over there." He squinted, trying to follow where I pointed. "To get her out now would be detrimental. Not to mention, foolish. She was not alone; and, whatever pompous neophyte resides there would surely notice his missing counter-piece, a discovery that would be told right to his gypsies, then they would all know they've been infiltrated, leading to someone's—probably yours'—death, and then every careful plan to get every innocent person out alive would fall to pieces. And all because you acted impulsively."

Marcus blinked, "Alright. Alright, I get it."

"As long as you keep up your ruse with the gypsies, they will not touch your sister." I thought back to Christine and my internal struggle between common sense and that nasty, distracting aspect of love. I sighed, "Marcus, trust me." The niceties exasperated me, I was not used to them, but I swallowed the discomfort and continued to grind out the words with as much civility as I could muster. "I… understand. Seeing that I _accompanied_ you at the end of the gypsy path, you can infer that I had, in fact, seen the only light in my existence sleeping in a tent surrounded by armed gypsies. But—"

A distant crackle sounded down the path, like a footstep on frozen grass.

Wrapping my gloved hand over Marcus' mouth yet again, I glared menacingly into two, brown confused eyes and brought a finger from my free hand to my lips. Silent and sudden, I pulled us behind a cluster of trees and inched out the Punjab just as a large form entered the corner of my vision.

Besnik, now easily identifiable under the glow of the moon, bathed in the darkened blue of midnight, was walking up the path with something tucked between his fingers. A letter of some sort. Marcus' gaze began to dart in a crazed fashion and I cut him a cold look to which he gave back, but then he slowly blinked his eyes once, focusing on the task of calming amidst circumstances he had scant knowledge of, the tree being a block to his view of the gypsy. Besnik was too close… he had a weapon in his other hand. It glinted when it turned at an angle. The bone carved handle with the indented monogram—I knew that knife. Murder bloomed in my veins like scarlet ink, my jaw hardened, and each of my muscles clenched to the point of pain. _Now all that was missing from this little gathering of childhood memories and momentums, _I thought bitterly, _was my mother. Or was she going to walk out next?_

Besnik sniffed the air like a hound, his thin wrists knocking against his sides calmly as he peered around. Apparently satisfied, the brute made way to the trap door and kneeled down by it. His eyes flittered around one more time before he set down the paper, fished out a key from his back pocket, and opened the door with a click. He slipped the note in, began to hum with a horribly scratchy voice, but was cut off abruptly by my rope's embrace.

With a trained flick of the wrist I heard a small crack and knew I had broken his neck. My eyes watched it happen like someone trying to make out distant shapes in the throes of a thunderstorm. Everything was distorted and abstract, while completely different pictures appeared in the raindrops that crowded my eyesight—the dirt floor of my cage, the bone-carved handle of the knife, Christine's lost eyes as she was pulled back onto the ship, his carnal comment about her tonight by her tent.

But, I blinked, dug the heel of my free palm into my eyes, and watched Besnik fall to the dirt and leaves and crackling snow below.

Marcus quickly stepped away from me and looked at the gruesome scene, his face an odd mixture of relief and fear. "Why did you—what happened to ignoring impulses?"

My veins thrummed with adrenaline like liquid fire, as always after a kill. But, it also felt as if a heavy weight was pushing on my chest, fatigue swelling and filling every fiber of my being. For a man that rarely slept, I knew, at that moment, that I could have easily remained unconscious for a week straight if circumstances allowed.

"It is not the same. Killing is much different than blindly rescuing and getting all parties killed in the process. They already know that I'm here. They do not know that I know where your sister and Christine are being kept." I walked towards the corpse and unwrapped the rope from his purple neck. Numbly, I took his dagger and carved a faint red 'E' onto his right cheek. "The gypsies will only know that Besnik here ran into me when he was out at his post."

Marcus swallowed when I glanced at him. The dirt-covered door opened to my trembling touch and I gripped the paper I had retrieved from its black depths with both hands to keep it steady.

_O, _

_We are having the girl perform at seven pm tomorrow night, March 1__st__. The two will be there along with their Persian friend. You know what to do._

_-Emilian_

"_Then it will all happen tomorrow night," _I mumbled beneath my breath, watching the blonde in my peripheral vision. He was staring at me with a look all too familiar. The one a person gives to a wild animal they aren't sure will attack. It was true that Besnik was his enemy as well, but that did not mean the man was used to witnessing murder.

I gripped my stomach, feeling my innards twirl like black ribbon, the darkness reaching up into my hands and spreading to my fingers; it began to cloud my mind like sour mist and then escaped down the bristling hairs on the back of my neck in both morbid pleasure and familiar pain. Then, the reprieve of ridding myself of an enemy faded, just as it had with Javert's son, and only pain was left.

I was my own enemy.

Killing was never an enjoyable task. No matter how much hatred was felt for the person... they never truly leave, nor does the deed fail to leave a mark on your soul.

The letter fell back to the top step and I shut the door with a creak, put the lock back in place for the second time, fumbling over the action twice, and leaned forward until my vision ceased its swim through deep waters. Marcus was as still as a statue.

My glove came quickly off as the way to conclude the night drew forward in my mind through the muck, and I took Besnik's dagger, wiping the brown streak of blood on my sleeve. I watched the tip break the skin of my palm and turn in a scraping circle with only a short hiss from my lips. Turning my fist, I dripped the black drops that had fountained around the metal all over the dagger and then gestured for Marcus to come near, smearing the blood onto his hands and white sleeve as well. He was too stunned to react, though I heard him mutter something about France.

"Take this." I placed the dagger in his bloody hand and then slipped my glove back over my wound. "You will go to the gypsies right now and report the murder that you saw. You lingered after they sent you away because you heard something, hiding behind trees to investigate. You watched me murder Besnik and then I heard you. I missed your neck with my rope and you managed to grab Besnik's dagger from the ground and wedge it in my abdomen when I left it unguarded. I ran off in a near-fatal state and you went immediately back to the gypsies to tell them like the good messenger that you are. Got it?" Marcus gave a dazed nod, still staring at my warm blood on his hands, but at my grip on his shoulder he looked up, focused his eyes in determination, and said, "I can do that."

He turned to rush down the path and, though I wished to finally rid myself of his stimulating presence until it was completely necessary to again tolerate, I grabbed his arm with my good hand. "Just know," I informed calmly, "that I can easily kill you and your sister if I so wish to. That in mind, do as I say and we will all live. Do not speak a word of what actually happened tonight, only the ones I fed to you. _Bonne nuit_, Marcus"

….

I burst through the door with force extremely void of finesse, the night's events doing nothing to dissipate my adrenaline. It felt like I was on morphine, though there was no pleasure or relief. Only the bad effects. The damned vicomte had given me a room number _slightly _off and the first door I had tried had nearly blown off the hinges, startling the older woman behind it to the point of translucency. She had actually dropped to her knees and crossed herself, most likely believing Death, garbed in a black cloak, had come to claim her in the dead of night. I had uttered a _wrong room _and closed the door quietly after that. Thankfully the next one I tried held the infuriating familiar faces I had put up with for the last two weeks.

"_Daroga!" _Nadir dropped his teacup back on the plate with a loud clank at the growl of my voice; and, Raoul, throwing his head up from the back of the chair he was sleeping on, threw the upside-down _Guide to Coney Island_ from his stomach with almost as much haste.

The chair to the small table creaked its protest as I flung myself down on it. Blood was still seeping down my wrist so I threw that glove across the room and ripped the bottom of my shirt with my good hand, yelling to anyone who cared to listen about needing alcohol.

Raoul, surprisingly, slapped the bottle onto the table and I gave a curt nod. Nadir spread his hands in a philosophical manner and answered my peering gaze, "I took some on the way up."

After cleaning and binding my hand to save it from infection, I closed my eyes and took a long swig from the liquor bottle, letting the bitter spice burn down my throat. A dark form blocked the light from my eyelids and I raised my eyebrows. "What do you want, Nadir?" He laughed, but it wasn't from humor. "Open your eyes."

I complied and jerked back at how close his face was to mine, but he leaned away clinically, a frown in the corners of his jade eyes.

"Your pupils are dilated. Who did you kill?"

That had Raoul's attention and he quickly moved to stand by the Persian.

Not wishing to rehash all that had occurred, I began to ask in a curious voice, "What do you—"

"Erik, at times in Persia I believed your eyes to be black. Do you wish me to elaborate on the reasoning?" I glared at him but only set my lips in a grim line, staring at the light to sear my eyes back to normalcy.

"One of the gypsies that took Christine. It is all taken care of." The bottle fit itself between my lips again, the mouthful larger, spilling like pleasant fire and sending its sharp aroma upwards to wrap around my mind.

"Tomorrow," I sang quietly, "let the spectacle astound you."

….

The next morning, before dawn could fully bleed out and leave a wash of blue, signs were painstakingly made, vendors were bribed to put forth their most singular inventory, as well as—with notes, no less— workers to comply, and my plan was set in colorful motion.

* * *

_Coney Isle's Night of the Masque: Masquerade_

From 6 pm till close, only those wearing their

most striking masks and costumed garb will

be allowed entry into the park.

Masks for lowered prices at the park's

Vendor stands lining the gate.

_Fool any friend who ever knew you—_

* * *

**Christine**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Selina's eyes, green sea glass licked by the flames below her face, remained trained on mine as I gaped at her.

_Are you sure, then, that you have not already had your revelation? _

The chair groaned at my abrupt drop onto it and I stuck my elbows on the velvet of the table, cradling my head in my hands, my hair curtaining me from any questions requiring an answer.

My mind ran quickly over all I had just said—all that the cards had just said—and was immediately absorbed back into my past at the opera house.

Every obstacle, every torment…

A wild flame of anger built slowly in my chest and I sat up, not knowing where it came from, but unleashing it just to rid myself of its clawing.

"What are you accusing me of?" I cut into the air, watching Selina's eyebrow rise at my change in demeanor. "Loving Erik? Choosing Raoul for the wrong reasons? What are you trying to make me admit?" I gave a crazed laugh at how high-pitched my voice was rising. "Well, answer me!"

Though we were only a few years apart in age, I suddenly felt no larger than a child as the gypsy's eyes flared with… _insight_, as if she could actually see into my soul and was currently digging around.

I looked down sheepishly, abashed by my outburst, distractedly rubbing off the last of the kohl from my fingers.

"No, I could not accuse you of anything. I barely know a thing about you other than the small portions you have told me." She paused and gave a little smirk as I met her gaze, "though, you seem to be accusing yourself of plenty."

The words that had last left my lips… Suddenly, tired of fighting myself, my emotions, I began to cry.

Time slipped as I sobbed, but Selina remained patiently stoic and unmoving. The tears were silent, I thought of nothing coherent, but emotions poured mercilessly, escaping in hot fury down my cheeks and onto my lap.

When my body ceased its shaking and hiccupping, I whispered into my hands, "_What am I supposed to do?" _

Selina stood quietly and began to heat water over a small fire. The smell of herbs shrouded the air and, soon, she appeared back in my tunneled eyesight with a cup of tea.

I gave a weak smile and then took it from her, letting the steam brush my face as I took a flowery sip.

_Loving Erik… _did I?

_I love Erik. _I let the thought sit, waiting for telltale signs of wrongness and unease to flood my mind, to assure me that the statement was false and unnatural.

Nothing came, and that frightened me.

But, I _loved_ Raoul. I was _engaged _to Raoul. Did I really accept his proposal for the wrong reasons? Being in his arms always felt warm and safe and familiar. When we were on the roof…

"You sound more like you are describing a brother." I nearly dropped the cup at her voice, unaware that I had spoken my thoughts.

"What about with Erik?" She laughed at my nervous expression, "I am sorry if I am prying, nothing very exciting ever happens in my life."

At that exact moment, an older woman, most likely in her fifties, swept into the tent with a grave face and spiraled black hair, eyes reddened from tears previously shed. "On the contrary, Lina. Please give Miss Daae and me some privacy. There is," she cleared her throat, "news in the camp, so you best see your father before the park opens."

With a respectable nod, Selina gave me one last look and then left, leaving my turbulent emotions abruptly cut off and abandoned to be fearfully reexamined at a later time.

"I am Nadya," the woman proclaimed with a look of distaste, her dark skirts brushing around her ankles as she turned to face away from me.

I kept my head bowed and did not respond.

"My nephew, Besnik, was murdered this morning, before the sun rose." My eyes widened and I looked up to find her facing me now. Erik. It had to have been. He had visited me last night and must have run into Besnik afterwards. _Erik_… I closed my eyes and pushed Selina's conversation with me back down before it could erupt.

Relief flooded first… the way Besnik had possessively touched me on the journey to American, spoke so evilly, bruising both Selina and me— He was cruel and cold. But, then I bowed my head lower in shame at being even a little glad that someone was dead and quickly prayed for God to forgive me.

Feeling those cold eyes still on me, I looked up and said, "I'm sorry for your loss," though I was not sure exactly who this woman was or why she was telling me. It just felt like something she was expecting me to say.

She nodded and came closer. "I know that you know who did it as well. You can only hope that he doesn't heal in time to come to your performance tonight."

_Performance? Heal?_

"What happened to him?" I demanded, my voice hoarse but surprisingly strong.

"Yes, you will be singing tonight at the auditorium. Think of it as an artistic expression of joy for the upcoming engagement between you and my other nephew. Oh, and our informant seemed to have been there when that monster killed Besnik, landing a 'near-fatal' stab to his stomach." Her voice ended on an amused note.

My hands flew to my chest and I gave a cry, my eyes growing cold as I watched the side of Nadya's dark lips purse into a smirk.

This was not happening. _Couldn't_ be. I knew it was dangerous for him and Raoul to come. They came for their love I did not deserve and all I caused was pain, now physically so! Was Raoul hurt as well? My heart pounded rapidly and my breathing was almost as loud as Nadya's voice.

"Tonight I do not believe he will make it to your debut in his condition, but you will perform each night until he comes. And, you know he will come." She stopped mid-step, leaning back and speaking with a voice so casual and friendly that you would think the previous conversation did not exist. "My daughter will see to your alterations and warm-ups."

Then, she was gone, leaving me hugging my knees on the chair and bringing the now cold tea with a trembling hand to my lips.

.

.

.

**Well, I can NOT wait to write the next chapter. Without the unforeseen obstacles that so love to pop up with writing this, chapter 13 should be up sooner than usual! **

**Family trees are spreading and Erik is burying himself deep. Will his plan work? *maniacal laugh* Until next time. *sings* MASQUERAAADE!**

**Okay, please review and help me out with some feedback. I love reading them and I love my reviewers no matter how few! And, who is this 'O' person the letter was to? Why ****_is _****Raoul being targeted?**


	13. Chapter 13

**Long, long chapter! And now… more torture for the lovely songbird. **

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**Christine**

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_"__Erik is dead. My stab must've been deeper than I thought…"_

I had slapped my hand over my mouth to stop its anguishing gasp at the first three words. Now they reverberated around my skull like the harsh echoes that had always sounded off of the cavernous walls beneath the opera house, the ones that howled just as loud with his music. I now thought echoes were terrible, relentless things!

_"__Dead? _Dead_? He was a murdering ghost at that opera house in Paris… no one could see him unless he wished them to, let alone touch him! You mean for me to believe that you, a prissy Englishman, killed _that_?"_

I remember feeling extremely lightheaded, as if my perfectly catastrophic world was ripping to shreds while I watched from outside of my own body.

_"…__I talked to the Persian —posed as a concerned resident who happened to smell all the metallic of the blood coming from his room, of course. He did not suspect that I was not who I seemed. You saw the blood on my hands… he was unguarded for a split second and I managed to sink the knife in him. Must've been adrenaline."_

The voice had continued when no reply came. The bridge of my noise pinched when I gripped it with lethargic fingers, questioning my sanity. Why would the words not cease their circuit around my mind? Why could I not adopt the quiet around me _in_ my head as well and rationalize, deny, deal in whatever fashion people dealt with news like this?

_"__I saw behind him, into the room, to your enemy lying in his own blood on the bed. His eyes seemed lifeless and his body still. What more do you need me to tell you?"_

My heart had beaten in record time and I had dug my fists into my ears at those particular words, hard enough to hurt, but soft enough to make out the rest, the strung together consonants and vowels streaming into my mind like a sweet poison you forced yourself to consume.

I listened now to the silence, its sheet of finality beginning to tear from impending words. My own thoughts grew louder and harmonized in anguish with the previous voices. I had already lost my father, I had already lost my Angel of Music, and now, after all that I had done, after all that had happened, I could _not_ lose anyone else important to me. Yes, he was important! I could _not_ lose Erik.

_"__And we should trust this information?"_

_"__If I were to lie, you would kill my sister. My mother is gone, my father is a despicable, soulless man, and I have no wife or children. I have everything to lose if you think me false—I have done all that you asked and more, sir. Please, just let Emma go."_

_"__You are dismissed until six pm—"_

_"__But, what is the need of this trap now if your intended victim no longer breathes?"_

The pause at the end had been the loudest, and it had turned into a thrum that buzzed in my ears still, muting all else but my internal, miserable opera.

_No longer breathes._

Any speech had stopped a few minutes back, but really had only magnified to my ears. Now, I sat crouched by the tent the voices were contained in, waiting for the next words to painfully wedge in my gut.

_I_ could not breathe—cotton filled my airway so that it was impossible to swallow, making my throat, every time I tried to, clench tighter and tighter without reprieve; the ground was swept from my feet, and I doubled over from where I was hiding and clawed at my stomach, trying to get a grip on anything solid.

The falling sensation was familiar. I could name many times where this feeling had overtaken me… most frequently caused by Erik.

A Persian man. Erik. Where was Raoul? These gypsies clearly had no interest in him, for they did not mention him… who did? Was anyone still alive? Would we ever leave this park? I rocked in a soothing manner, hugging my knees.

Alone, alone, alone, alone. And Erik… he had died alone! Oh God, have mercy on his sins if he is dead! But, he can't be dead. I shook my head to no one in particular. The thin, frozen sheet of snow by my feet glared from the sun in reply.

The informant finally jogged past the tent I was hidden behind, and I watched his pink cheeks, the heave of his chest as he ran, the unfair puff of breath visible in the morning air.

_No longer breathes._

Then I nearly choked as I realized that this was the man I had tried to get help from on the train! How opposite he had responded to my interior pleading. He was alive, when Erik was proclaimed dead.

Pushing one hand against my teeth to remain silent, I dug my other fingers into the ground and felt the cool earth beneath my fingertips, paying no regard to my skirts, the tears that were trying to shed burning like fire behind my eyes. But, then the next words, whipping my head up as if it were tied to a string, hissed from my enemies and numbed the fear in a way—were all I had to hold onto… their morbid hope that he was still alive so that they may kill him themselves, and, my hope, that he was just alive.

"I don't trust him, Nadya. At least… I do not trust that he was actually smart enough to kill him."

A humorless laugh sounded from Nadya. "You saw the blood. The boy may have injured him, but the Persian and the noble… of course they would tell Marcus that he was dead. They would be ill-witted to trust anyone in this bloody park. We will continue as if nothing happened. I want revenge, Emilian, so strongly do I want it that I know Fate will let me have it. I feel that he is alive."

"Well, then go get the girl and prepare her for tonight."

I froze momentarily at the sound of steps, dragged my fingers along the bottom rim of my burning eyes, and leapt off of the ground, bolting to the main path that wound through the tents until I was far enough away to remain inconspicuous. Most of the gypsies were conducting a funeral for Besnik, so the camp was eerily deserted, silent save for a whistling wind screaming like a tied up banshee. There was also the muted music, steps, and murmurs coming from the opening amusement parks, adding to the nightmarish sensations of seeing the empty camp around me but having the juxtaposed noise tug at my ears.

Brushing the dirt smudges off of the too-big dress that was given to me upon arrival, I gripped my hands into fists and walked to the well where water was kept, clenching my eyes shut as the sound of gravel crunching underfoot alerted me to Nadya's presence.

Stilling my trembling hands by gripping the spout of the well, I focused on my breathing and filled my other palm with the cool, clear water and splashed it on my face. The madness that had tried to take over dispelled abruptly when the ice silk smacked my cheeks, bringing back my clear thinking. I summoned and latched onto my acting skills so that I had a semblance of appearing perfectly, obliviously normal while raging storms still threatened to break my body from within. The jittery feeling, though, was thankfully gone.

"Come, Christine. Did you eat?"

I turned and nodded calmly, as if she was actually concerned over my wellbeing, trying to avert my eyes from the anticipating gleam in her dark ones.

_Erik is dead._

My hair shielded my face as I looked back down at the water, and I clenched my jaw to steel my emotions. Even if the informant was wrong and Erik was not dead… her vengeful voice echoed in my mind.

_So strongly do I want it that I know Fate will let me have it. _

My stomach flipped with queasiness at the thought of what was to come tonight. Only dry bread and spiced butters had made way into my protesting stomach after Nadya had left Selina's tent, but I felt as if I had eaten hundreds of rich pastries. I had walked outside to clear my head afterwards and heard the hushed voices, leading me to what I called the 'meeting tent', for the older gypsies, the ones of higher importance in their families, went every night.

Nadya cleared her throat and began to walk up the path, looking back only once to make sure I was following.

March was finally here, and an egg yolk sun was rising up through the thin trees and in between the skyscrapers beyond. I heard the ocean more clearly as we walked, like the sound of ragged breaths trying to breach my attention. The gypsy camp seemed so separate from the bright park, though I could walk a short path and be right in the heart of all of the carousels and vendors! …There was something sinister here; and, whether that be because I was taken against my will, or the dangerous leaders of the clan—the easy-made threats, talk of capture, the violent fights and cries I had been hearing outside of my tent between disputing families. Whatever it was, the knowledge that Erik had lived with them as a child, enduring the pain that drew scars along his body, moving Madame Giry to an almost sororal protectiveness of the feared phantom… I pictured a ghostly image of a little boy, wearing a mask—was it white at the time? Made of cloth that she sewed?—forced over his face by his mother, wandering near me, humming beneath his breath. He was crying and holding his ribs, but no one gave him a second look. My mental conjuring of what it had been like for him seemed tactile in the way it pierced my mind, the way I could picture the tear running unseen beneath the mask, and I reached out, almost expecting to feel the small hand of a battered boy. But, there was no one. The image remained, but I could not comfort him.

How different things would have been if only he had been shown the slightest bit of love as a child… the love every child deserved!

My thoughts then went to Raoul, the young boy who flew kites with me and my father in our summers at Perros, whose steps were always crawled on by butlers and governesses waiting to bring him whatever he desired. He was never corrupted by the opulence of his childhood, but it was there, waiting to bring him whatever he desired. A grandiose dream of ballrooms, hunting trips, beauty, and love did Raoul live in, while, for Erik, it remained a cruel dream to wake up from. I had those… those what-could-have-been dreams where all is right and my father is alive and my mind is at peace with itself, filled with music instead of troubled musings. Erik was too much of an enigma for me to ever pretend to know, to relate any of my suffering to his, but I felt it in my soul—that we were a lot alike.

_Were…_

I gripped my quivering lower lip between two fingers, grating my knuckle against my teeth. _There's still hope, _a voice reasoned. _Erik, of all people, would never leave the world with such a lack of theatrics. _My fingers then stifled a giggle, knowing that the thought was completely true. But, what if…

My mind began to drift through dark waters, needle-pricked questions plaguing its edges. What if, what if, what if. Then the bigger question: What will I do then?

Two small children, both dark-haired, flew from the tent as we approached, bringing me back to my wits, dropping their makeshift ball when they saw me. They quickly resumed throwing it at each other after their childlike curiosity subsided, and Nadya ushered me into the smell of fabrics and incense.

It was clear that the woman sitting swathed in pools of silk was Nadya's sister. The only difference in appearance was that the sister was a tad more rotund and had eyes of light hazel instead of Nadya's black-brown. But, they both shared that blatant look of distaste, lines of the mouth curved downward, eyes slightly narrowed. From the way Nadya had spoken of Erik I reasoned that they probably both did not even see me. They looked at me, but through the sheer veil of my countenance, they saw him.

I cringed under their glare and waited for someone to speak. No one did. The two little boys squealed outside as I rocked on the balls of my feet in the vacuum of silence. Then, Nadya sighed and broke the still air like a pebble dropped in water.

"Fit her quickly. The car is waiting to bring her to the auditorium."

The sister sniffed in reply, and Nadya sauntered out with a nod, leaving me to be poked and prodded by needles and swift fingers. I never did learn her name, but there was never any time for conversation. The quiet, grey aura of the tent, with the little boys still playing their carefree games, hung heavy between us until she at last dropped her arms from the fabric she had been tucking and sewing.

There was no mirror, but I peered down and smoothed my fingers over the silk, assessing what I would be wearing as all rage broke loose tonight. The skirt was full and airy, my hands depressing the fabric when I pushed down; midnight blue washed over the folds like carefully mixed paint, iridescent gleams undulating when I twisted my hip, like how I imagined the Northern Lights would in the sky. The bodice was velvet, v-shaped, and lined with maroon trim; and, the sleeves draped off of my shoulders, tightening on my forearms. The décolletage was lower cut, but definitely fit the showy ambience of Coney Island. I felt like the Queen of the Night from _the Magic Flute, _a part Carlotta had once played in the opera, but it also seamlessly reflected my personality. The dress was dainty, simple, but a mystery in and of itself—much like my mind. The dark colors made my skin ghostly, but also gave me a distinctive, ethereal feel of beauty. Or, maybe it just made me feel as if I hadn't left home, that an entire opera house was waiting for me once I pulled back the opening to the tent. With a sudden bout of melancholy, I wondered what my father would think of me now… Would he be proud? Would he recognize his Lotte, who had shed her ribbons and yellow frills with each passing year without him?

Remembering myself, I cleared my throat, lifted my head, and gave a small smile in acknowledgement. The sister's lips frowned further, if that was even possible, but I daresay I saw the weakest, most reluctant of smiles in the warm green of her hazel eyes.

After quickly dressing back into my clothes, with my costume folded over my arm, I was led to the streetcar that Nadya promised, perched on the railway that wound through the entire park—which, I soon learned, was quite larger than I had first assumed. I was mildly annoyed that I was not encased within the Populaire's walls as I had hoped, and I stared in contempt at the first amusement ride I saw; but, the short trolley to Dreamland, the park closest to the pier, did distract me.

Now the early afternoon, the park was swamped with families, the sun shining bright upon each glossy head. A rollercoaster—or, at least that was what the sign said—composed of small mountains and valleys, rumbled to my right while the women onboard held onto their plumed hats; a growl drew my attention to the left, and I was just in time to see the face of a lion bare its teeth before the doors to the circus could close behind a couple; The 'Canals of Venice' rolled out like ribbon as park-goers poled gondolas through the thin, manmade waterways, bringing unpleasant fears to the surface as I clenched my eyes and listened to the familiar sound of the rocking boat; and, then, after smells of food, thawing snow, and excitement, the car came to a halt.

Before I could even satiate my curiosity, an ordering voice called, "Miss Daae, if you would please."

A tanned hand hovered disembodied past the door and into the car, the man it connected to unseen. I stood from my seat, dragged my fingers along the empty ones lining my sides as I tentatively made way to the exit, and then stepped down with my hands folded beneath the dress. The man chuckled at my ignorance to his invitation before dropping his outstretched arm, and I warily glanced upwards. He was likely in his sixties with salt and pepper hair and an impeccable mustache of the same color; a tailored navy suit made his amber eyes appear almost yellow. Though, they were not a warm yellow. Crow's feet sprouting from the corners of his eyes suggested that he did, in fact, smile, but, once he stopped laughing to himself, his skin returned to smoothness and his yellow eyes were like beacons of light in which you tried to stare past, knowing there was a cold recess of darkness behind the stained glass shield. His eyes unnerved me.

Leading me into a small rehearsal room attached to the apron of the stage, the tails of his waistcoat smacking the tips of his calves as he walked, the man handed me a music score with a small smirk. I decided that he must have been handsome once. With a clinical frown, I wondered what had happened to harden him so. His lips unnerved me as well, thin and papery, the kind that made even smiling look sinister.

Flipping his coat over the back of a piano bench, the man turned with a creak from his weight. "Mademoiselle, you are quite a long way from home, are you not?" He appraised me coolly and I lifted my chin, steeling my brown eyes against his amber ones. At least his French wasn't exaggerated like how most tried to pronounce. "Though, surely my park has surpassed your standards? There certainly is no place like Coney Island." His words were hollow, the air even recognizing his sarcasm.

"I would not know. My only glimpse of it has been on the ride here, thanks to the captivity which was surely elicited by you, _sir_." I puffed my chest out further, but immediately realized my mistake as his eyes wandered downwards to my bosom, his fingers dragging soundlessly up and down the piano keys. Gripping the sides of my dress's bodice, I yanked upwards and glared in warning. My patience—as well as my sanity— was wearing thin, my insides were churning with the uncertain wellbeing of those in my life, and I was being carted around like a piece of meat dressed up as a wind-up doll, waiting for the key to turn to obey and sing and lure.

He slapped his knee with a hardy chuckle, and I had the urge to slap _him_ just as hard with the sheet music in my hand. "Well, I now know why those two would travel across an ocean for you! Your hot-temper is…" He looked up as if grappling through words floating above his head. He looked sidelong at me and proclaimed in a low voice, "_endearing._" My skin crawled and I stared at the mirror-paneled walls, scared of my haggard reflection, barely even recognizing myself in such foreign circumstances.

"Though, I only need one particular boy to believe that so," he muttered beneath his breath like an afterthought. Raoul? Or did Erik somehow provoke this man as well? How did everyone fit in this mess? Girls scantily clad rushed by on tip-toes as the door to a dancehall behind them closed before I could ponder any of my questions, bringing chatter and noise to pierce the tension between me and the strange man. Seeing them stretch and laugh together made a pang rip at my chest at the near-memory of a petite blonde and her mother. _My family. _ I almost expected Madame to burst through the door after the girls, tapping her cane against the polished wood floors and yelling of their poor efforts.

The man, who was most definitely the one giving the gypsies so much money, began to play the music in front of him with an indignant sniff, breaking me from my reverie. It was music, but not any kind I wished to listen to. The notes were pretty and well-gathered, expertly played… but there was no emotion. Was _he_ the wind-up toy? I closed my eyes and pictured my Angel at his organ, caressing the ivory keys with reverence, as always before he began, swaying with the music that poured from his mind as his deft fingers danced a waltz as fast as the music came to him—a flurry of movement, the serene look on his face, the essence of his soul leaking into my ears. But, then the memory morphed, and blood pooled out of his torso; he barely even made out my name before scarlet began to drip down the corner of his lip and—

The music had stopped long before, the pushed in bench and closed cover to the piano the most obvious indicators. The dancers were still, staring at me as if I were mad. And, then I realized I was looking _up_ at my surroundings. The cold floor pressed against the pads of my fingers and my shins, and I hurriedly got up, felt my cheeks redden, and then brushed off my skirt with quivering hands. Was I mad?

"If you are ready, Miss Daae." The man said coldly. To do what? I glanced down at the music in my clammy hold and read words, meaningless words. Was I meant to sing? The real world swam back and I realized where I was. The prospect of singing mocked me, just as the piano music had. I only sang for Erik… even during his jealous, murdering madness, I only sang for Erik. But, if he was dea— _no, _I dug my fingers into the side of my thigh. It was all a plan: a genius plan of his. Nothing was wrong. There was no blood, nor death. Erik would be there with Raoul and they would both take me onto a ship and all of us would sail safely back to France. My previous plan, to escape on my own and save the both of them from my indecisive mind, was futile—I saw that now. In fact, the pending fever must have spurred those thoughts on the ship. As frustrating as that was, and no matter how passionately I felt about not wishing to hurt either two, I could not overpower the ones keeping me here. A new plan would have to be decided upon in France. Hope would have to surface—that forbidden emotion that never failed to pierce your heart when it turned out hollow. But, I would... –hope that both men would be fine in whatever they attempted. And they both _would_ be; because Erik was alive, nothing was wrong, and there was no blood, nor death. He would be there tonight, and I would sing for him.

"Yes…" I cleared my throat and took a deep breath through my diaphragm like Erik always taught me. "Yes, I am ready, Mr.…"

"Hammerstein. Oscar Hammerstein."

**Erik**

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The doctor's brick and obsidian-windowed building where Vivienne was being treated was situated far from the slums of the East Side of New York City thanks to the money I had imparted. I had, though, been greeted with ghastly glimpses of emaciated children, huddled immigrants, and waste pooling the streets on the carriage ride from Coney Island. The perceptible change almost seemed miraculous as skyscrapers lost their dirt on the transition into the wealthy division, rising higher than the pitiful tenements; the streets faded to grey and became crowded with the other half, strolling in the finest fashions; and, even the air appeared clearer, the foggy motes of pollution containing themselves to the slums by some invisible barrier. The drastic difference between poverty and opulence had left a shudder up my spine. Of course, my nerves were still jumping like a violin's frantic bow from my kill. Sleep had evaded when I needed it most, and now stale coffee rumbled sharply around my empty stomach.

Thankfully, the length of the ride had allowed my body rest, as well as its demons, leaving me much better fit to go visit a toddler of a child than before. I now mentally went over the progress I had made so far, tapping my gloved fingers against a vine's skeletal leaf. Marcus had already told the gypsies of my 'demise' after I met with him for a second time, the costumes and masks were bought, and I was beginning to feel more confident that we would safely retrieve Christine tonight. Then what? That was a predicament better left in the shadowed recesses of my mind.

Looking now into the office's window, my grim face brightened with a small, hopeful smile and the pressure surrounding my eyes loosened. Vivienne, through the glass, was dancing softly around the room on top of her father's feet, his hands supporting her entire weight as only his shoes touched the ground. Her cheeks were a healthy rose and her hair glistened like burnished gold in the early afternoon sun. My fingers wound together in thankful prayer before I could even notice, and I quickly pushed my hands down to my sides and rolled back my shoulders. Nadir followed my jerky movement, and his smirk did not go unchecked. Having donned my fedora and flesh-colored mask, I _had_ planned on actually going inside and checking face-to-face on the wellbeing of the little mademoiselle, drilling the doctor with every question possible. But, now only steps from the door, my natural instincts reared up and I feared the task. Venturing into a crowded city for a five-year old…

I don't know why I was so inclined to protect Vivienne, but wasn't that how my father-like relationship with Christine had started— an inexplicable need to help a pure soul undeserving of the sadness they endured? Men at my age usually have a handful of wailing kids by now; was I not supposed to have the same paternal tendencies?

"Erik, just go inside," Nadir sighed with amusement. I glanced at him, hating that I appeared a coward.

"Yes, Daroga, I was planning on it. Can a man not enjoy the sun for a moment?" I quipped, throwing a sidelong look at the shaded alcove we stood under. Nadir observed as well and began to chuckle.

Swallowing my nerves, I glared at him and spoke coolly as I turned and walked towards the glass door, "You can accompany me if you wish."

Strange looks filled the air with tangible tension as the few men and women in the waiting room and behind the desk took in my dark-garbed countenance. And the shine of the right side of my face. I did my best to ignore, steeling my eyes to the wood floor, and let Nadir do the talking. A plump man with a blonde mustache jumped up, introduced himself as the doctor tending to Vivienne, put down his pen with a flourish, and ushered us through double doors.

"Ah, so you are Erik! My patient was very eager for this visit."

By the time we reached the room at the end of the hall, the doctor's glasses were askew and his cheeks reddened from hasty replies. Having ambushed the man with all of my inquiries and receiving answers, I was now mildly satisfied. After running tests and observations, the doctor had concluded that she had a type of heart condition. The pace of her heartbeat was abnormal, her breathing was uneven, and he'd seen her physical exhaustion in other children with the same symptoms. There was not yet a name, but weakness, fainting spells, running out of breath quickly… it was a competent, though vague, answer. He clarified that, since her symptoms were milder than what he had seen before, he did not think that the condition would lack response to treatment. I let out a breath across my tongue as we reached the door and Nadir gripped my shoulder in camaraderie.

The room was cheerful and sunny with a rose-patterned rug and sitting area occupied by Monsieur and Madame Beaumont. Vivienne was on the floor tracing the dappled spots the sun made shining through the lace curtains. I felt like a sore thumb, though at the sight of me, Vivienne burst from the ground and ran into my legs, gripping the backs of my knees. "I knew you'd come!" Her voice shrilled like a bell. A collective yell sounded from everyone in the room, and I bent down quickly to steady the poor girl. Her dazed eyes clenched shut in dizziness and she grabbed her head, wilting into my arms like a flower from the abrupt exertion. _Who did I inherit this character trait from—bringing disaster everywhere I stepped? My mother, or dear father? _

"Vivienne," I implored in a velvety tone, "you cannot run like that."

She frowned, but nodded, finally opening her eyes. "Though, I am happy to see you doing so well, mademoiselle." I tickled her small belly and she shrieked a giggle, the sound penetrating its way my core like the sun through the window. It was strange eliciting joy from another human, but I cherished the rare moment.

We then sat in the adjoining chairs beside the Beaumont's and talked of idle nonsense for an hour while Vivienne played with her dolls near the bed. Glancing at each other, both Nadir and I silently acknowledged the haggard states of both parents. Though, Nadir, being the warm picture of charity, suddenly brought up a _wonderful_ proposition.

"You two have worried and watched over your daughter every night for months now. Please," he leaned his elbows onto his knees, "take the day off, have supper out, stroll the city..."

I glared at the Persian, wondering what on _earth _he was doing. He knew of the plans for tonight… except, he did not. The urge to dramatically slap my palm to my forehead arose. Trapped in a calm setting, I could not react, but inwardly I cursed my vagueness and pride. Only giving them the skeleton of my master plan in my scattered state from earlier, both he and Raoul knew very little other than that we would rescue Christine at her performance tonight. I needed all three of them!

Madame Beaumont shook her head with a laugh and began to protest, but Nadir cut in, "I insist! You cannot help your daughter with failing health!" The glimmer of hope beneath her eyes was as clear as firelight projected through a diamond, and her resolve began to crack.

Ignoring the subtle kick I delivered to his shin, he continued, "Just one night at the park! It would do her good to get fresh air. Vivienne loves Erik, and the doctor versed him on all he needed to know…"

The banter continued as I stared at the ceiling, my shoulders drooping lower and lower at each mellowing response from the Beaumont's, at each time Vivienne tugged on their legs with a wide, pleading smile.

….

The carriage rumbled back to Coney Island with a sleeping Vivienne nestled in my arms. A 'sleeping' doll was nestled in Nadir's, placed by the girl with the long, blonde curls. It was veritably difficult to uphold my angry demeanor towards a man awkwardly holding a doll, trying to make it look masculine in a way, but I managed.

"What?" Nadir asked defensively in response to my cold glare, "I'll watch her. Those two looked on the cusp of death! The timing is not the best, but it will not disrupt any of your schedule. We could even bring her back before seven." He looked down and roughly discarded the doll to a safe distance away from him. "That's when Christine performs, right?"

Shifting the girl so that she was more comfortable, I quietly hissed the complexity of my plan to Nadir, watching his eyes widen at each word until his eyebrows began to ascend.

"Maybe you'll learn not to be so damned cryptic, man!" He bellowed, cutting off his words as he remembered that Vivienne was sleeping. The tanned brown of his adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, eyes turning inward in cogitation. We both looked out of the window at the passing city and water, wondering _how _tonight would happen with a little girl carrying a sickly heart, her safety now placed in my murdering hands.

Raoul met the carriage at Surf Ave and, to prevent further misunderstandings, I told him everything that would transpire as well. He stared at Vivienne and then back up at me, but made no further comments. The boy's eyes were noticeably alert and bright, and I narrowed my eyes, suspicious as to what he had been up to while we were gone.

Asking aloud, he answered proudly, "I mapped the layout of all of the parks here, though it seems we'll only need to worry about Dreamland. There are networks of underground passages for storage, which I also mapped." He looked up between Nadir and me and his voice grew even more excited. "There is one that we can reach from another connecting tunnel below Dreamland that reaches all the way to the port we arrived at. That is probably so that shipped supplies could be easily brought to storage by the workers. Erik," he paused, "I know you were _adept_ at seeing and traveling in the maze of darkened passages at the Populaire, so this should actually be a fairly easy escape. And then…" He lowered his eyes and heaved in a rattled breath. "We'll take the next ship back to Cherbourg."

So he shared the same worry about what would happen once Christine was back and safe. Why he worried, I did not know.

Nadir turned to me for an answer. I wanted to correct Raoul, oh how I wanted to… but, he had suddenly come up with something useful. And, his idea was not bad at all. In fact, it was safer than my escape.

With all of the grudge in the world, I ground out through clenched teeth, "We'll do that."

Now back at the resort, Vivienne woke up from the jostling of walking up the carpeted stairs. She yawned and eyed Raoul.

"Who are you?" She inquired, her bell-like voice syrupy from sleep.

Raoul smiled his most dazzling smiles, making me swallow a sour taste knowing that one day he would smile like that at the children he had created with Christine. "My name is Raoul de Chagny, mademoiselle."

"It's Vivienne," she stated. A laugh burst past my sealed lips as I remembered that she _needed_ others to address her by name. She then turned her drowsy eyes up at me and confided with innocence and a really loud whisper, "I don't think I like him."

I laughed a second time, an unfamiliar sound that rumbled in my chest, and watched Raoul wipe off his miffed expression to stare at me as if I were an ancient hieroglyphic he was trying to translate.

"I don't think I like him either, Vivienne." _For once, the Vicomte de Chagny experienced dislike from a person other than me and the world has not yet imploded. _Then, like a synchronized triad from the strings section, Nadir and Raoul sagged in laughter, leaving me with no choice but to slightly peel down my rough armor and question if the frail child with the failing heart was really the one in need of healing.

….

_58…59…60…1…2…3…_

5:50 and four seconds…5…6…7…

"Daroga, the girl doesn't need tea."

Then for good measure, "This is _not _a beauty pageant, Raoul! Put the mask on your face and be done with it!" He took his hands out of his hair and shot me a look of disdain. I grinned and examined my ensemble with a critical eye.

There was significance in my wearing of dark maroon for tonight; my mind had cleared veritably since my days of being the masque of the red death, and it was almost as if I were paying tribute to that shed visage, snuffing out the bright, maddened candle. I still felt the phantom in many ways, like my own gloved hand reaching out of the darkness to grasp my naked palm, and I feared that I would always hold onto some part of him; but, the appeal had begun to worn off like the ocean dusting rocks to sand. Losing Christine consecutively as many times as I had aroused the humanity I always denied myself, and, now, with as much ardor as I had imparted in possessing her love and the submission of an entire opera company, I would wear the dimmed red while doing all that I could to cut out the pain and fill it with the effervescent mist of redemption—to do _right _for once. Christine's kiss had done more than sear my stubborn heart with love; it had joined me with society for the seconds that it lasted. Still disillusioned, I admitted to myself, knowing that I would likely join my hands with the thick substance colored the same as my garments tonight, but wanting to shove the past behind was at least a start.

Glancing around the room until I was satisfied no one was paying attention to me, I took off my mask and slid on the one I had chosen for the masquerade, wincing as the pads of my fingers met bumpy flesh. It was a full black domino mask this time, chiseled like my white one to mirror the smooth left side of my face. I stood out of the chair and appraised my reflection in the mirror, puffing out my chest and arranging my cape. Usually seeing what I could've looked like was even crueler than staring at my unmasked face, the mockery dangling the life that would've been in front of my eyes. Yet, over the wears of time and eventual slight, miniscule, _forced_ acceptance, the mask had almost grown to be one with my face, and I sometimes felt as if the piece of leather were truly the features I was missing on my right side. And then I felt, for the moments that the disillusion lasted, just like every other man.

I slipped on my gloves and raised my chin, noting that the dark mask made my eyes appear more blue than green. After stretching my muscles and giving one last look of approval towards my imposing highwayman garb, I took my glass of brandy and eyed those getting ready behind me through the mirror's reflection.

Why had I not gotten Raoul the Servetta muta Venetian mask? The store _had _kept those in stock! There were no mouth holes, nor straps on those; he would've had to bite a button on the inside to keep the mask on, hence hindering his speech. The image made me chuckle to myself. Instead, I had thrown a full white one into the pile, and he was showing up tonight as… well, no one specific. He merely wore a gold brocade vest beneath a waistcoat with a maroon silk cravat tied around his neck.

Sharing the theme, Nadir wore a dark maroon cape over blue Persian robes held together by the same color cummerbund. His mask was full as well, gilded and simple. He had lined beneath his eyes with kohl, giving the emerald of his irises the appearance of a threat, as if he was planning your death behind them.

And Vivienne? She had insisted that she wore pink. While she had rested for tonight, I had ran back out and bought her a sculpted swan's white mask with small crystals hanging off of the sides to wrap into her hair as well as a blush pink dress with puffy sleeves that only served to make her arms appear even more tiny. She now lay belly up on the bed with her skirts fanned around her, moving the mask this way and that above her head until the lamp shone through the little beads. She had already drilled me with facts from my own story, pointing out that I couldn't take the mask off until I found my one true love. Ignoring the sad glance from Nadir and uncomfortable swivel of head from Raoul, I had assured her that I could switch masks as long as the kingdom's seal remained covered.

_5:55…1…2…3…_

"Gentlemen and Lady Vivienne, I believe we have a carnival to attend."

….

Even the moon joined in on the spectacle, throwing its most brilliant of gleams onto every polished surface, leaf, and glassy mask until the scene's glow took on a dreaming aura befitting of the park's name. The thousands of lamplights scattered through the streets were covered with colored paper so that the ground and everyone walking along it was dappled with thick prisms. And, the music! All of the musicians within a close radius seemed to have assembled in haste from the strange news of a masquerade carnival. Sheet music fluttered in the night breeze whilst waltzes soared above the shrieks coming from each amusement ride, the air pulsating with the steam-gusts of carnival music coming from the calliopes. Dance areas had been cleared, lined with crystal lamplights, and an actual indoor dancehall attached to the main auditorium spilled out its golden light onto the cobbled street as gowns twirled inside like spinning tops. Yet, my eyes were glued to the green velvet curtains dusting the wood floor of the auditorium. _I will find you, Christine. _

I turned on my heel and gazed again at my surroundings, admitting to myself that I was a tad smug knowing that I had everything to do with the event. Mere cryptic demands, notifying important workers, and hanging posters had caused the raucous and madness which I had passed in the carriage on my way to see Vivienne. I should really put an ad in the papers so that incompetent managers can hire a ghost to scare their slack-minded employees into actually doing their jobs. _Absurd_, I chuckled soundlessly.

Vivienne tugged my hand, her arm brushing the outline of the dagger I had hidden on the inside of my belt. "Erik, can I watch the circus? There will be animals in there!"

I stiffened. We had tried to bring her back to her parents an hour prior, but they had not been there. No one at the office knew when they would be back either; but, they had remarked that the two had voiced that they only planned on being gone for a few hours at most, after which they would come to us to retrieve their daughter. Something did not sit right, but there was no time to look further into the matter. We would just have to keep her safe and away from as much danger as possible.

"Nadir, why don't you take her? Meet Raoul and me by the stage in twenty."

Raoul threw me a strange look, likely wondering why I didn't send _him _off like I usually did.

"Both of us are wanted. Splitting up, we would be picked off like vermin."

He nodded and glanced warily around him. Raoul had tried to take the news that he was a target lightly and with bravery, but I saw how being out in the open unnerved him. Though if he continued his jumpy gait, not even his mask would hide him from his enemy. I lowered my voice menacingly and threw it into his left ear, "Try to cease searching the crowd unless you're going for the look of a wanted man." He whipped his head to the side and I gripped his right shoulder. "Natural movements. Don't draw attention to yourself."

Raoul moved his hand from his sword with a sigh and cut me a cold glare. "If you didn't want me to look then don't throw your voice like that!"

My sorting through various possible sarcastic replies was cut off when a familiar blonde materialized next to the friend, John, a petite redhead clinging delicately to the latter's arm.

"Marcus, I don't believe I've met your friend." He smiled nervously and then turned to quickly introduce John, who then introduced the lady as Emma. I bowed politely, and she, in turn, blushed demurely with a small curtsey.

Marcus' face was pale and his knuckles just as white around the mask he clenched, I noted curiously, the entire trio appearing strained. He forced a smile again, his eyes wild as if he had just seen Death, and then excused himself, pulling me away from the others.

"What is this all about?" I demanded in a harsh whisper. He dropped his hand from my arm fearfully, holding his hands up with a placate gesture. Or were they at the level of his eyes? My smirk dropped as his eyes turned inward.

He looked back at the girl and then to me with a jerk. "Erik," he swallowed, "That is my sister."

_His sister? _But, she was being held captive. "How is that possible?"

Marcus began to shake his head. "John and I were in the city today and, lo and behold, she was there just shopping idly by herself, wearing a nice gown, smiling, not giving off any signs of distress that would imply that she was in any way being kept in a basement against her will." He paused his ramble to breathe and then looked back at Emma as if she were a ghost. "Erik, she laughed at my insinuations and assured me that she was staying with a friend. But, I know it was her in that basement. It was undeniably her voice that I heard!"

"The gypsies may have lied," I offered, the wheels of my mind spinning.

"No," he shook his head, "no, they were telling the truth. She is putting on an act. She's a pawn like us! Every time she believed no one to be looking, I saw fear in her eyes!" Marcus swallowed and continued quickly as Raoul, John, and Emma began to walk over, "I asked her who lived in the building we were under—leaving that out, of course—since I believed it to be a grand piece of art and knew she must've made many friends during her time in New York." His eyes turned colder than ice and he spit out the last words low in his English-accented throat, the lights glinting against his teeth. "She then had asked dramatically, _don't you know where father lives?"_

"If she was released," I stated listlessly, "then, the gypsies have no more need of your apt espionage skills." My eyes ached to look around me, but I held the urge back. "That means that they know I'm here, and that they have some knowledge… some weapon that makes them confident enough in their plan to kill me tonight."

Marcus slid his mask on and then added, "Yes, and my _father _is the one that has your Christine right now. He's the one that is bent on killing Raoul."

Then, it was Raoul's turn to pull me aside, Marcus' visible face matching the exact color of his mask. "Well, I discovered a cousin in-law!" His cheerful nervousness sputtered and his lips pulled down into a serious slant, his voice lowering to a whisper. "John plans on helping us—"

Dizzied by every ambush like the spin of the carousel, I suppressed a growl when yet another tug came on my cape. But, the tug was weak and I cooled down my temper before turning to look into Vivienne's bottle green eyes, the ones exactly like her mother's. Seeing her smile made a pang knock my breath. Where were her parents? She couldn't be subject to this dangerous night. The Beaumont's would be here soon. They had to be. I scooped her into my arms, warmth spreading from where she nuzzled her head against my neck. It was odd that it did not shock me as much anymore, that I had actually become slightly accustomed to human touch.

John tapped my shoulder and gestured with his head towards Vivienne. I was just the man of the hour, wasn't I?

"What is it?"

He stared at Vivienne for a moment longer before suggesting, "Why doesn't Emma take this little one around the park? I'm sure she'd rather not spend time with boring old men!"

Vivienne looked up and sighed heavily past her flower petal lips, "Why does no one know my name?"

I set her down gently and peered at Emma, her blue eyes sparkling in a sad smile. When she nodded consent, her eyes flickered with a silent message different than the casual act Marcus referred to, an understanding and an assurance. I detected no danger in her, nothing other than a gentle, fearing soul. She glanced at Raoul and then back at me. Finally, surprisingly at ease with my decision, I joined her hand with Vivienne's.

She bent down and finally smiled genuinely, "Hello, Vivienne."

As they melted into the crowd that spilled over in a current of anticipation to hear the songbird of France, I turned just in time to see the curtains rise and reveal a head of glistening curls that tumbled down an indigo gown, pale skin glowing like the moon.

"_Christine…" _

**Christine**

**.**

**.**

I closed my eyes and breathed in as the violins began, reaching out my hands as if to feel where Erik was. He was in the crowd, that I knew, but looking would be too tedious.

There was a trilling, energetic aria from the opera, _Le trouvère, _which I was to sing—as one big mockery, it was about gypsies! I knew the crowd of masks would enjoy it, for it fit the ambience of the masquerade well, but I only cared about one's opinion. The one who was _not _dead and whose blood was not on the man from the train's hands.

Though, as the orchestra began to play its first swelling chords, nothing joyful came from my lips. Instead, the words were a haunted requiem, like the ones Erik used to sing, my voice reaching to Heaven with tears running down my cheeks. I scrunched my eyebrows, trying to force my perfect scenario of all being well out onto the foreign landscape before me, but my mind was no longer in control.

Through pools of distorted glass, I watched the audience, one by one, take off their mask and clutch it to their chest, a new type of sparkle on each of their faces. The conductor rose a bushy eyebrow at my melancholy tone, but rolled his eyes and slowed the orchestra down, only magnifying the strength of the sadness leaking from my vocal chords.

It felt as if I were in a dark room with no one around for miles, though I wasn't sure how I knew that; there were no windows, no way out, no sounds, not even any dust! Faces peered in to listen to my tears, but their countenances absorbed into the walls of water until I could no longer even see them. There was only a filmy black.

The curtains shut with a swish and whooping replies from the audience were only heard as if they were still beneath water, garbled and far away.

Turning, I saw Oscar in the shadows, sliding something that glinted silver into his belt. A sword.

I gasped and backed further into the dark, my arm brushing the velvet of the curtain. He looked around before slipping out of one of the exits, whispering to a guard. Air. I needed air.

As he left, a swarm of chorus girls poured in from backstage, the stagehands creating a maze with the scenery and props they wheeled through. Confident that the guard was blinded and lost in the crowd, I grabbed the hand of one of the chorus girls—the only one kind enough to befriend my instability during the long day, sharing a strong dislike for Oscar—and told her that I was going out for a little and to distract the guards as well as Oscar should he return before I do. "Tell them that I am using the lavatory, or that I felt queasy!" She nodded in determination, laughing a little at my disheveled state as I threw thank you's over my shoulder.

The unused exit hidden beneath a draped curtain did not wish to push out, and I gritted my teeth and put my back to it until, finally, it gave way, nearly causing me to lose my footing. Night air brushed my skin and I ran forward, unsure of where I planned to go. Smelling spices and champagne, I wandered over to the dance hall's window. The auditorium was still close enough to run to, lest I get caught out here, so I contented myself with watching the gowns spin, letting my eyes blur the colors until I could no longer see arms or masks with sharpened vision. Why was I crying? Everything was fine!

The prismatic skirts blended into a stained glass window and I paused, overcome with a grief I could not place. Imagining the Angel Gabriel on the window in my mind, I wrapped my fingers together in prayer, watching the colors move around through the film of my eyes. Once I was certain my father had gotten my message and that it was just right, a calm settled over my strained fingers and my lips formed a small smile against the wind.

Walking in-between the long, draped table that formed an aisle along the dancehall's brick exterior, humming softly to myself as I marched like a bride, it came quite a shock when I was suddenly tackled to the frosted grass below, the breath knocked out of the next note that was readying to leave my mouth.

The tablecloth a barrier between me and safety, I struggled, too stunned to yell. Underneath the lithe weight above me, my eyes squeezed shut to banish the nightmares that had begun since my abduction, I felt my heart hammer madly in my chest - a bird escaping its bone cage. The man did not move, nor did he speak.

I opened my eyes slowly and curiously to peer into blue ones only inches from mine, a black mask shrouding his face in shadow so that the orbs of seawater appeared to float. Was this a dream? Was I dying?

The feeling in my back regaining as well as my vision, and I suddenly became _very _aware of the body; the hard planes of a warm chest millimeters from mine, my bosom skimming it with every breath; the muscles of his strained arms brushing my shoulders, his fingers resting in my hair; two legs hovering above my tangled ones, the thigh sliding against mine when he shifted himself closer; the tickle of hot breath as he leaned into my ear, putting a gloved finger gently to my lips, whispering in his low baritone, "He's close now. Do not make a sound." The wind picked up, cool streams of silk fighting against the warm velvet his words produced for claim of my senses.

Erik felt so real, and I suddenly smiled, nodding my head against his finger, my heart pounding even faster from the close proximity - closer than I had ever been with another man. I listened to his breath catch as he realized the same, breathing my name into my curls, and the buzzing I felt run down my neck at that palpable sound, the roll of the 'r'… Drawing in my eyebrow, I wriggled my hands from my sides and dragged a finger down the side of his face, feeling his chest rise and fall even heavier at my touch.

Then I drew my hand down to his chest, feeling the repetitive thump of his heart to prove that I was, in fact, not mad. Holding back a gasp, I whispered just as quietly as he had, "You're… not dead." My first words to him in weeks and there were so many others I wished to say, but I could not find the right ones - the ones I would allow myself to use, the ones that would express any of my feelings in eloquence. He shook his head slightly, letting out a small laugh which led to a characteristic smirk, so characteristic that it shipped me back to France for a few fleeting seconds. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back on the ground, letting the tears stream down my face as he angled his head away from me, listening to the air beyond the table's barrier.

I studied his jaw from that particular angle, boldly taking in the way the bone formed a straight line that pulled the skin tight, then led down to the sensitive skin of his Adam's apple. How would he react if I touched him there? He had been too stunned after our kiss to even react when I ran my fingers down his throat and to his chest. I pondered that childish question until the wind drew the scent of his neck into my nose, the night air mixed with an exotic musk, and gooseflesh raced down my skin when I realized I _knew _that was what he smelled like already. He turned back down, eyes unyielding, and I blushed despite the terrifying circumstances occurring beyond the haven of a draped table.

Though, those fears, along with thoughts about anyone or anything else, vanished. Suddenly... suddenly, I felt like I was looking into his soul - that the pupils of his eyes were gaping, dark tunnels that led to it. I saw darkness, but light; suffering, but the simple joy he found in just being near me; horror, but the most pure beauty I had ever witnessed, leaking out of those ocean eyes as its prison warden unlocked the door he had tried to bar shut for the past year. "Thank you." For teaching me to sing, for finding me even after all that I'd done, risking your life in the process; for showing me that a heart can still be so earnest even after living a life without any love, and for loving me... The two words were, again, inadequate, but the shy emotion that had bubbled with them had said more than I planned.

I had told myself that he was alive, had practically forced myself into a state of insanity to believe it, but even I had known, deep down as it was, that the reality I had created could shatter like glass… I squeezed my eyes shut tighter and relented to the truth, throwing the chains of my heart to the fire still consuming my flesh at our nearness, his torso now brushing my stomach like a whisper. I swallowed, the air lodging itself in my throat. There was no doubting any longer. A small flame in my heart, the one still hidden in the room with no windows, lit itself and began to warm the cold air, filling my entire body with Heavenly Fire as I stared at him, my eyes falling again into his as I waited for a response. Erik must have read something in my expression, for he turned his eyes downwards, leaving his face completely unreadable, and then barely answered above a breath, "of course." As if it were the most simple thing in the world, as if it were silly that I'd even have to thank him.

He leaned his knee until it rested between my legs on the ground, likely to ease himself from his planked position, but a warm, brilliant sensation spread up until it burst in my belly. I almost giggled, despite myself. There was no need for him to keep me pinned beneath him any longer - I knew to stay still and quiet - yet he remained and endured his own discomfort.

His bow-shaped lips then became really appealing, the way the top lip adhered to the bottom slightly when he parted them, the light from the dancehall's windows playing up the shadows of his masked cheeks, the sturdy cleft of his chin.

"He's gone," he hummed low in my ear after another moment of listening to the outer-world, and then began to lift himself up, but, with wide eyes, I wrapped my fingers around the neck I had wanted to touch and pulled him back down, timidly bringing my lips up to his in a gasp of determination. My mind definitely was not present at the moment, but my heart had screamed at me to do it, and desperation prevailed. Desperation to feel the sensation of ashes within me being fanned into blazing embers by his breath on my skin, to feel more than just near-touch, more than just his hands guiding mine along my body like they did onstage in Paris, more than his fingertips only whispering against my skin, his lips only nearing mine; to have my strength drained when he did touch me, even as lightly as it ever was, to feel everything I pushed away from the Populaire because I was afraid of what it meant, of how it would change my contented thrum of a life. So, when his lips began to move with mine, his hand weaving in my hair to hold me firmer in case I disappeared as I had before, the same spark of passion, free of the veils my own mind would place out of indecision, shocked me. It was the same spark I had felt when kissing him after _Don Juan, _right before he had sent me away with Raoul. And now, with every inch of him hovering above the tangible energy between us, with his lips gently exploring mine in a way I had only dreamed of even in the de Chagny's estate, feeling his breath along the outline of my lips, cooled by the tongue that tasted of brandy… I knew why I had come back. For answers? No, his magnetism had pulled at my heart as if it were tied to a string even if my mind did not know it; I had needed to be near him no matter the madness he had stirred in everyone and expended himself.

When cold air hit my lips I opened my eyes in protest, but Erik had pulled me up into a sitting position and was now wiping the tears that were streaking like beads down my cheeks with his leather-covered thumbs. His face was a replica of the look he had given me after I had kissed him that night so long ago, so much so that I looked down at my dress to make sure it was not white. Disbelief, sadness, and love. Always love. That night his face had been bare, and now it was completely covered; but, his eyes were the only feature needed to decipher his emotions.

Further proving the surrealism of the situation, he did not send me away. Instead, he asked quietly, "Christine, why are you crying?"

I laughed, taking his hands from my face and holding both, dropping one to hastily wipe off a few more tears. With some tugging from his stiff hands, I took the gloves off and gasped. That pink burn was on the back of his hand still, but now on the other side of the palm, a huge circular gash sat in the center like an angry sun. _The blood on the informant... _"I thought I would never see you again."

His eyes widened and then he averted them, staring at his bare hands over my pale white ones. It occurred to me that he has likely never heard those words spoken to him before… the child with the mask, wearing scars and hiding from this beautiful world we live in, from its unwelcoming, crossed arms.

"And I," he looked up, staring at my lips, "did not truly think you would care." Erik appeared to want to say more, but then grimaced and bit his words.

"Did you not hear my song?" I whispered, leaning my forehead against his chest, relishing in the comfort of the closeness I used to deny.

He drew a finger along my cheek hesitant but confident all the same and then tipped my face back, a curious look on his face when I nuzzled my head closer into his hand, my body contentedly responding to its wants for once.

He opened his mouth to respond, but the real world broke the moment, a stagehand calling a minute warning till the curtain would open. Erik immediately grew rigid and alert and turned to me in urgency, his voice no longer light, "Christine, there are many here with me to take you away from these demons. I need you to finish the concert as if nothing is wrong, and then I will come get you right afterwards. If I do not come, another will, whether it be Raoul or Nadir Kahn, a friend of mine that you can trust."

"If you do not come?" I asked with a tremor in my voice, standing up after him.

"Christine," he paused, speaking to my swollen lips, murmuring something beneath his breath. I turned away, the weight of the night physically placing itself on my chest.

"I love you."

Those three words were right in my ear, but I looked back to see nothing but the dark, the wind rustling through the trees making me feel strangely alone. Taking a few calming breaths, I brushed off my skirts and hurried the steps towards the back of the auditorium, my heart pounding with more than one feeling as I nodded politely to the guards and took my place behind the curtain.

**.**

**.**

**And… finally! Christine just cannot resist our masked man. This ****_is _****supposed to be a romance, right? Well, unless I wanted to make this chapter 20,000 words long as opposed to 10,000, the rest of the showdown—the nail-biting parts—will occur in the next chapter. Words, people, words! Has anyone's guesses on what happens next changed?**

**Christine is not going insane, though it seems like it at times. She's more just having an emotion breakdown and using denial to deal with it. If there's any confusion on that, or any other detail of the chapter, let me know! **

**Have a lovely night. :) **


	14. Chapter 14

***Peers over balcony at the pitchforks and blazing torches* ****_I _****am even mad at myself for taking almost a month to post this! It was the most emotionally draining chapter I have written, I raised impossibly high standards, and… well, those two factors produced frustration and prolonged writer's block. I only hope that it was worth the wait! Long, but definitely not a slow chapter.  
Huge, giant thanks to ARoseTiedWithLove for pre-reading all 14,000-something words and giving me her insightful and greatly helpful opinions. You would probably have to wait a few extra days if not for her!  
Oh, and of course, THANK YOU to all who read, review, and both. You are all my encouragement and give me such joy to know this little story is being viewed. **

***Rips curtain open dramatically***

**Christine**

**.**

**.**

There was something sinister about the dark of Dreamland's backstage that was not there at the Populaire, especially when the curtains open to crimson blood. The blinding lights streamed into my eyes like scarlet ink, and I blinked a few times, adrenaline calming as I assumed my calm, stage-performing persona. Well, as calm as I could appear with the melee of nerves dancing beneath the surface.

The intro began. I tucked Erik's pilfered gloves further into the pocketed folds of my gown, rubbing the leather for comfort and memories.

Was it possible to be so entirely frightened but entirely exhilarated at the same time? Dread for this night was clawing at the insides of my stomach, and yet, my skin still buzzed from Erik. My lips still buzzed as if they had been brushed with champagne. Who knew it could feel like _that? _What I had only glimpsed in his home, I had received full-fledged tonight.

I loved him. By God and every mystery on this earth, _I loved him. _And I felt so free! In a foreign country held by my will I had never felt as free as I did in that moment.

The ring had been slipped onto my pinky finger right before putting on my gloves, the diamond twisted to the underneath of my hand. I knew my mother had worn it, my father having performed an innumerable amount of concerts on his violin to pay for each diamond. He told me, before he died, that he had chosen it for its resemblance to the Populaire's chandelier that my mother had loved so dearly. With our hasty engagement, I had told Raoul that I wished to wear my mother's ring. He had obliged after protest, then protested even more when I became adamant about wearing it around my neck, but now… now I am not so certain why it wasn't clear to me before. I had worn it like a memento, a keepsake, refusing to put it on my finger for fear of the scandal of a performer marrying a vicomte, for fear of Erik seeing it, for fear that the gesture would make it _real._ Now the chandelier had crashed, but, just like the love my father had held for my mother, the kind that transcended the grave, the ring was eternal. And, at that moment onstage before a carnival of Americans, wondering who would survive the night, waiting for the big explosion, or scream, or smell of blood that would very likely occur… at that moment I felt giddy, wishing to put the ring on my finger as I had done back in Erik's home. But, this time, I would not give it back.

Opening my lips to sing to the crowd of dappled colors, even I was surprised at the sound that was coming out. Along with from my diaphragm, I was singing from my entire body. My _soul. _There was no mind paid to the fact that it was one of Oscar's compositions. Nothing mattered. The words were happy. Not a requiem like from before, but that lightheaded sound of happiness that streams straight from your core.

Then my thoughts leapt towards Raoul and guilt reared its ugly head, making me sing the next note slightly off-key. Not noticeably, really, to the audience, but I was trained by a man who never demanded less than perfection.

And Raoul… my love for him was much different than my love for Erik. God, admitting that tore at the seams of my soul like a corset, and I could finally breathe! I could have been content marrying Raoul, living far above comfort, right in the heart of French aristocracy. It would have been a perfectly predictable life, I humming while I arranged flowers for guests with Raoul reading the paper by the fire, servants bustling about the estate... The opulence would swaddle me and keep me safe from darkness, and yet it would also drown me, for darkness was inherent to my being. Innumerable days of light would blur to insignificance and drear, for without dark there _is _no light.

_You sound more as if you were describing a brother. _Selina's voice entered my head, and I let down the walls I had previously boarded, opening my arms out to the audience. The chill immediately rose gooseflesh on the skin above my gloves.

I was in love with the memory of Raoul—the little boy who played with my father and me. He was in love with the girl who had scraped her knees on the shells of the shores… the one who always needed saving. A ghost. Our love was a love of the past.

_We never said our love was evergreen, or as unchanging as the sea. _

With tragedy, fated love, and moments too-late… my life had morphed into the confines of an opera.

Falling into his arms those months ago had felt so familiar, yet foreign all the same. I had been grasping onto the safe reminiscence—as simply as I had grasped onto the lapels of his jacket—of the little boy who would give me the other half of his sandwich and hold my hand when nighttime stole all warmth away from the sky. Not the Vicomte who saw me as a delicate woman with the mind of a child, in need of grounding to earth, in need of dismissal to her large imagination. We had both grown, and I realized… He no longer knew me, just as I no longer knew him. Chaos had brought us together, but in an unintentional form of manipulation. We had played a harsh game of make-believe with our hearts even if neither of us acknowledged it.

No matter if I followed through in marriage, a masked man would forever be in the forefront in my mind, my soul willingly gripped by his leather-clad fingers. That strong hold would remain until the day I sprinted back to the body it connected to, freeing the music and sweltering passion curbed inside of me. I knew, and have always known, with a deep premonition, that Erik would be all I see each night before I sleep. Not out of fear… but in desperate dreams that dangled all I could have had, if only I dared to accept it, in front of me before snatching away the remnants with the first rays of the morning sun. This was not a blind guess, for had I not awoken each night at the de Chagny estate, sweating and staring blankly at the elaborate ceiling of my room? Come morning after that fitful sleep, would I not wake still gripping the sheets, tears spilling over and onto the silk pillow at my utter inability to understand my own heart? The day would begin, the only indication of my torture the deep brown pressed beneath my eyes… I should have known all along that the relief would never have come being away from him.

He would forever be all that I wished for. What _was_ right if to stay with Raoul would mean to become the gleaming knife that would cut his heart? Hurting my dear childhood friend who only wished to save the girl who scraped her knees on the shore and fell in love with angels was inevitable, it seemed.

But, I did not have to hurt Erik any longer… Three words and I could begin to fix our shattered lives as opposed to dragging him into the pit of his own demons.

Three words that I _knew _were true amidst the deceitful plate life enjoyed placing before our eyes. _God, give me courage… _

I could only hope that Raoul would forgive my misguided cruelty - know how accidental it had been. Heaven knew how much more hope I needed for Erik to forgive me as well. Would he ever be able to look at me without seeing the night I left with Raoul? Without seeing me rip off his mask, or hearing every countless word spoken against him?

Yet, the fact that there were people here working to save me, to bring the idea of a future at all back into existence, and the fact that there might be time to tread that long journey towards forgiveness, made every second on the stage all the more bearable.

The thoughts were written plain and clear in the large script of my mind, and the source of my agony from the opera house finally rose from its hiding, exiting with relief and a flash of potent regret. How much time I had wasted letting my mind curl in on itself until I was a shell, incapable of telling the truth even to myself…

Though my heart's desires had finally risen through the ashes and streamed from the locked box, it was now just that… I had opened the Pandora's Box of my own emotions. Spending an entire one-third of the year cruelly storing away the woman I believed mad and assuming the helpless damsel that I had become had not changed me. It had hidden me. The box would now open to chaos, and, through the open mind that the tarot cards reminded me I possessed, I would have to find my true self and the pure voice, free of outside influence, to match. My singing voice had been crafted meticulously through the years to produce a sound far beyond my hopes, the norms of the time, and as unearthly as the teacher who created it. My inner voice? It had been scolded far too much, bridled far too often, and ignored more than anything. Bruised and battered internally, it would take time to heal that layer of my soul.

And heal it shall, for time might now be in the cards. _The past will come back and something that was lost will be found._

_If this card represents another, the relationship could be dangerous, but it will be from passion. _

_The feeling you thought lost will be found._

Breathing in through my nose, and out through my mouth, the aria escalated in pace with my insight. I peered into my emotions like looking at an insect through glass. There was understanding now, albeit far overdue, because I finally had the means to decipher, and the experience—scarce and plenty all the same—to connect each and every reaction and sensation. _Passion_. I breathed in. _Fear_. The note held and escaped to the waves beyond. _Fear of passion_. The bell of my soprano lowered until I felt it in my throat like sensually gripping fingers. _Safety_. I saw Raoul in the audience, his eyes riveted on me in pain. _Love_. Unidentifiable shadows snaked through the rivers of teeming dark velvets, body stacked against body. _Love of safety._

I had loved Erik from the moment I knew he was a man. His temper, the murders, the threats… those had formed the haze that had clouded my mind. The more I felt for him, the more I feared him. _Fear of passion. _I had feared myself! Raoul had arrived at the exact time I began to question my reeling world, presenting his charismatic nature, kind eyes, and safe future, and I had latched onto it, killing myself slowly as I accepted a life that squeezed my essence into a self-constructed role—a made-up character. The one who had guided me through life was the one person I could not face! I had been alone with my confusion, and the rest… had progressed in one disconsolate blink.

The burden of the past began to press on my shoulders, but I had already endured its weight, and tonight was not the best night to revisit my demons. In its own twisted way, maybe coming to America had helped me—changed the scenery and provided more than enough time to sift through all that had been eating my heart.

If God—who I had prayed to ceaselessly the entire night—kept us all safe, and permitted us home, perhaps we could all start over.

But, what was starting over? Erik was still an enigma, one that beguiled me to no end… but he was the personification of a mystery, masculine and wrapped in a cloak. Even as he kissed me, I had been filled with his pain, so poignant that it had inexplicably heightened the sensations of his touch. And what of Raoul? The promises I had made to him? Could I really be so selfish as to subject these two men to my whims again? As much as I had been used as a puppet, I had unwittingly loosened my strings and played wickedly with theirs.

Niggling doubts snickered in their triumph, beginning to pull shades over the revelation of my true emotions.

The tune rose into a trying crescendo, and I suddenly wished to escape myself. I could not escape my love for Erik, for that notion was too absolute to question any longer, planting roots in my heart and thriving with each beat. But, my skin felt like the skin of a traitor, skin that undeservedly indulged in the touch from a man who gave his soul, and comforts from another man who the woman it belonged to could never love the way he wished.

That kiss, the one beneath an opera house, had resurrected me as well.

Yet, as with all deaths and hypothetical rebirth, the memories and ghosts will never cease their haunting. My naivety had loosened its hold enough for my mind to see that the past couldn't be easily forgotten, and a happy future couldn't be easily forged. I had enough regret to match count with each grain of sand, enough what-could-have-beens to drive me mad… and now here I was, in America, confronting my faults and meeting the same wall: the uncertain future.

Nothing could ever be gentle and simple, even if I wished it.

Maybe it was for the best, for my soul never did crave either of those things.

The song ended and I blinked, eyeing the crowd as if I had forgotten they were there. Those sad, green eyes of dear, sweet Raoul…

And where was Erik?

I touched the ring and smiled nervously to the audience as I crinkled at the waist and bowed. The wood of the stage pushed harder against my throbbing feet, and I turned anxiously once the curtains closed. Oscar was again gone from sight, though there was the acute sense of being watched, eyes painting my nerves with their physical touch.

With stealth worthy of an opera ghost, I stole away in the dark with the backstage madness again as my cloak. The hidden doorway swung easier this time, and I bolted, melding to the brick of the dance hall as I inched to where I had last seen Erik. Seen, felt, tasted…

In spite of the circumstances, my stomach gave its usual leap. These past weeks, knowing what true fear was and its visceral reactions… well, now I saw that more than a few of my—deemed—quakes of fear around Erik, strange bristling of the translucent hairs from my legs to my neck, had been nothing stemming from fright. He reduced me to a boneless pile of tickled nerves both then and now, but it was not from fearing a monster. I had only feared what exactly he could do to me, how only one, whispered, baritone word could weaken my knees—only feared how alive it had made me feel. I had feared how entirely different the sensations were from those caused by Raoul, thinking them unnatural if they couldn't be spurred on by his warm touch. Love should be mild and uncomplicated, my mind had supplied desperately at the time. With no one to advise me without bias, how was I supposed to suspect otherwise? There was fear held for the question of why, even after he killed Joseph, even after he had ripped the ring from my neck in feral possession, after he dragged me down to his home and noosed Raoul, I still powerfully felt those new sensations like tendrils of fire licking my weakest spots.

Each night leading up to _Don Juan _I would write of it in my diary, lock it, slide it under my bed, and pretend the next day that the words were never written. Those pages hold rips from a pressured pen, splotches of harsh ink, and even tears, crowning the words in my chalice of internal pain.

To read them now would only be to reiterate the exact thoughts running through my head currently, now finally admitting to myself that gentle and simple would never be enough. At the time, I had not been ready to accept that.

Quickly discarding my gloves, I slid the ring easily from my pinky finger and examined it under the moon. The circle of diamonds truly did look like the chandelier, full of light and delicate beauty. The beams of the nighttime stars and their rotund master cut through each facet of the ring, and I felt the reflections roam across my face as I turned the gold band this way and that. Closing my eyes, I could see my father at the counter, a nervous quiver to his brow as he examined diamonds as if trying to determine the earth's best-kept secrets. The meticulous search for the perfect sign of his love, the perfect gift that might win my mother's heart. A wry smile lifting at the unconventional way mine was won, I twisted the ring onto its corresponding finger, feeling far from shackled or chained as I so used to imagine I would.

I slid one of his gloves out and laid the long fingers against mine, curling my hand into the warmth that still lingered.

The trees were close by, and I waited with bated breath and a subconscious grip on the engagement ring, searching the black landscape to no avail. Still sensing that I was being watched, it wasn't so much a shock as to _when _the shadow came forth as much as _who. _My stomach plummeted.

A Persian man, likely Nadir, emerged from the ebony-clad forest. His eyes met mine in recognition, and he beckoned me forward urgently. The sky turned impossibly bright, my eyes burned like coals, but I followed for agonizing seconds… collapsing in a heap on the floor when Erik, garbed in a dark maroon, materialized by his side.

He quickly bent down and gathered me into his strong arms, his eyes, glowing white-blue by the moon, alarmed and fixated in an encompassing caress. "When I didn't immediately see you," I choked in explanation, "you told me—I thought… the worst."

"Christine," he implored gently, the arms that had frozen at my admittance now tighter. "I'm here. Ghosts can't perish." He laughed into my hair, a sound that made me quickly look up to watch his lips, and my muscles pooled in relaxation. I would replicate that sound as soon as possible. Anything to clot the wound I had repeatedly opened.

I stood, brushing off my dress again. For a lady, I had been sprawled on the dirt rather often tonight. "And neither can Angels." He stiffened, but eventually let a small corner of his lip lift in acknowledgement. A throat was cleared.

"Miss Daae, it truly is an honor to finally meet the subject of really almost all of Erik and mine's conversations." The presumed Nadir proffered his hand, his kohl-lined, green eyes sparkling. Erik shot him a venomous glare and shrugged. Erik, the most intense person I knew, casually tossed his shoulders and clapped Nadir on the back. My mouth opened in awe, and I forcibly closed it, slipping my palm into the Persian's warm one. "Likewise, Monsieur…." Erik had told me his surname, but in light of this strange encounter, I could not recall it for the life of me. _Nice choice of words, _I laughed ironically in my head.

"Kahn," he supplied. "But, please just call me Nadir."

Erik steeled himself like a rigid cobra at the errant sound of a twig snapping in the distance and hissed quietly, "I l_ove_ how we're all getting to know each other, but can we continue this when a band of gypsies and an enraged impresario doesn't want our blood?"

Nadir and I quickened our steps in reply, though amidst the thick air of danger, I still felt like giggling.

"They should have shown themselves by now, the gypsies. They're toying with their meat," he bared his gleaming teeth and searched the trees so harshly that I thought it was only appropriate for them to break at their bases. I inched closer to his side, and he looked down from his tall height, sliding his hand to touch my elbow in a comforting way, but his fingers also brushed my sensitive waist. A shudder ran through my body like a school of tiny, ice fish racing up my veins. Did he know what he did to me? Of course he must, for was that not his intention during _Don Juan, _punishing me by making me mad for him on the stage?

Erik removed his cloak from his shoulders and absently wrapped the warm fabric around mine, as if it were obviously expected. I smiled in shock at the tenderness he rarely let even me see. His lingering scent mixed with the heat he had left behind; it felt like his arms had surrounded me, the entire cloak merely his body softly gathering against mine in the most_ intimate_ of ways, his fingers sliding above the wool to secure the clasp at my throat forcing my heart into an erratic rhythm.

"Well, oh Opera Ghost, we must not give them the satisfaction." Nadir proclaimed and pressed onward. Erik growled a laugh just as the moon caught a glint from his belt. A dagger. Studying the two men in the dark, they looked like cunning soldiers, preparing for a battle with the keenest of eyes, and I wondered how they came to know each other. Like little boys playing pirates, they had that vibrating aura to them, a mischievous half-smile and excited step. Though, this was not pretend, and blood would shed. Of all things, for _that _I was certain.

Fear wrapped like a coiled snake in my stomach as the park grew steadily quiet and a sheer veil of frothy grey crawled over the moon.

We wound through the trees for what felt like hours, both Nadir and Erik snapping their head towards sounds that I could not hear. Erik's hand was wrapped firmly on my forearm, and my mind was flooded back to the past when he had pulled me down to his lair in the exact same fashion. I was not resisting, but he noticed the parallel as well, shot me a fleeting wince, and released gently. Hesitantly, and then with a determined purse of his lips, he lined his bare fingers in between mine and grasped tightly, as if he thought I wouldn't take kind to his touch so he must force it. I swallowed over my closing throat at the thought of what caused such impulses, smiled secretly at the new feeling of his long fingers sliding against my knuckles, and held on tighter in reply, my legs finding new strength as I lifted my skirts with my other hand and jogged beneath the shadowed moon in time to Erik's long strides.

Bursting through a clearing, the root-addled forest floor turned to cobbled stone. The park of Dreamland loomed in front of us in its brilliant colors, musicians still playing, and families only just starting to leave. The excitement of the carnival felt largely out of place.

Even I had begun to sense the danger in _not _being pursued. Conspiring all of our knowledge, we three knew what we were facing. _Three_…

Nadir, after giving me a curious look, dropped to his knees behind a vendor cart and started thrusting his fingers into the dirt, searching wildly. I looked to Erik for understanding, but he only smirked and continued to rub his thumb across the back of my hand. I don't even believe he was conscious of the action, but I was. My mind began to deliciously distract itself with the frisson running the length of my arm and the starburst of tingles originating where his hip brushed mine.

A large door was uncovered in the ground, and I subconsciously stepped closer to peer over Nadir's shoulder.

"No key needed," he grunted as he angled himself to the side and used his shoulder to propel his arms in pushing the top open. Erik slowly let go of my hand. The knife out, his feet shoulder-width apart, he scanned around us for those invisible threats that you could feel approaching with an inexplicable instinct. The copse of trees suddenly morphed into a haunted forest in my eyes, and I turned quickly away, ignoring the frightening sensation of being watched.

_Three… _

The tunnel led downwards in a cascade of stairs, a dark corridor situated at the foot. An escape… but, there were more of us who needed it.

"Where is Raoul?" I inquired, staring guiltily at the ring on my free hand. How had I failed to ask this question sooner? _You were too preoccupied with Erik to remember your spurned lover, _a voice in my head rang. Tears rimmed my eyes as shame washed over me.

I could not decipher the look that bloomed in Erik's eyes as he turned around and met the sight of my ring.

**Raoul, circa two hours prior**

**.**

**.**

Physical pain was felt as I watched Christine on the wood-lacquered stage, a wrench jamming down my throat as her perfect lips pursed over notes and moonbeam skin shown with internal light.

First she had emerged the mourning nightingale who seemed to have created the sound of torment, and now, after a brief intermission where my eyes had thirsted for her like one thirsts for a vice, she filled the stage as a jubilant dove, joyful music channeled from the heavens.

Her voice was so full of emotion that the entire crowd had dipped and cried when she had, each and every one of them fallen prey to her spell. Now they smiled as if their lives had suddenly found meaning. It was infectious, her voice, entrancing and otherworldly… I wanted to be triumphant. I wanted to feel my heart swell along with her words.

But, I only felt cold and barren inside, my breaths mere wind rattling inside of my carcass.

I was not sure what I expected to feel after seeing Christine for the first time since _Don Juan. _A ghost she had been… I had been chasing a ghost named Christine, the one who had clung to me as I poled the boat away from the Phantom.

The one who had vanished like mist that very night to return to him.

It had been easy to hold onto the memories of when she was mine, or when I had thought she had been, in the darkest of nights, shoving reality and my doubts away as simply as flicking my wrist and filling the gaps with ones of my choosing. An apparition haunting my mind—on the train, on the ship, as I slaved over maps of this damned island, she was always there with her delicate beauty and sad eyes. _I could not have saved her_, I would tell myself determinedly, _from manipulations of the heart_.

For that was what I deemed it when my mind failed to fathom the outcome—a manipulation.

It was not my fault that she chose him. I could never give her defiling music, or a dank tomb of a home. Of course, my main flaw was that I had never killed before. That was my Achilles heel! I was not a monster!

But, neither was he, though it was easier to believe so.

Grief—collected by a whole lot of half-truths, lies, and all that I had seen on that one fateful night: her smoldering eyes flickering with fire on that bridge, her glowing eyes after they kissed, her dark eyes when we left on the boat, her eyes, her eyes, her broken, wonderful eyes—progressed in subtle stages along the journey. Disbelief, disillusion, anger, weak acceptance, emptiness, even weaker acceptance, and then the cloth was ripped from the wound and blood poured as I again saw Christine in the flesh.

No longer a ghost or a memory, only several yards away stood the fiancé who was innocent and delicate and still just as beautiful… but, she would never be mine.

I suppose I knew all along. From the moment I first saw her in the dressing room, it had always been glazed eyes and secrets smiles about her Angel of Music. Proceeding that hasty reunion, I had chased her, my fingers missing her curls and only clasping cold air. Even on the rooftop, her kiss must have only been ardent because it was her first. The second had been distracted, she had even pushed me away… Yet, I still had tried to save her from herself, believing only I could give her what she needed. Her confession, also on that roof, where she soulfully proclaimed how the Phantom gave her essence vitality merely with his voice proved otherwise; _Don Juan_ had most definitely proven otherwise; the look of clarity and passion after she had kissed _him _had presented pages of the truth; and, running back to him for "answers", well, I should have known!

I, the Vicomte and childhood friend, could never provide the life she craved beyond all measure. All of the riches in the world would never be enough.

And, yet I still loved her in the stead of all pain.

That feeling of being a stranger, invading somewhere I didn't belong, the same sensation—that internal distance of a thousand miles—I had felt at the opera house, was returning as I watched Christine open her arms to the audience.

It was all too much to bear, looking at her burning my eyes as if I were trying to stare directly into the sun.

John and Marcus' droning voices grew louder and I shook my head to clear the remains of my reverie. Erik had returned from his scouting, or whatever obscure explanation he had given for his absence.

At first I thought he might have killed someone, for his movements were charged with energy, gloves were gone, and his expression crazed… but it was different from the look of that morning. Was he _smiling? _My interest was piqued and alertness switched on, but with seeing Christine and remembering who her love had drawn her to, my heart grew cold and I turned away.

I walked with the sound of Christine's voice gripping my lungs, her presence pulling at my back. Staring blankly, I walked until my legs breached the wall of the crowd and a vacuum of solitude surrounded me.

The area of attractions near the stage was eerie as it emptied, the only ones left being the crowd at the auditorium and those in the dancehall. A breeze ruffled my hair while the mechanisms to each ride creaked and groaned. With shadows looming and flickering in the breeze, the distant voice of Christine suddenly sounded like the call of a guardian angel, warning me from the hell I ventured into. The air was somehow colder the farther I walked towards the forest… darker. But, I had to get away for a moment and clear my head. How else was I supposed to save the ghost on the stage?

The sensation of being followed ambushed my senses, and I forced myself to keep my head straight.

Click, scrape, click, scrape… my footsteps were normal, but the almost imperceptible sound of another's followed just shy of complete synchronization.

_Don't turn around. You're wearing a mask. You're just a nondescript man. You're…_

A forceful blow knocked into the side of my head before my thought could finish, replacing it with a strange buzzing sound. _Fool, a bloody fool! _Were the only coherent words I could think as warmth swirled from the spot, momentarily lighting my vision before my body fell limply into darkness.

**Erik, a few minutes back from present-time **

**.**

**.**

Out of all the times my genius mind had lagged, this was by far the most drastic. How do you act around the woman who used to think you an angel, then feared you as a monster, then kissed you as a man, and then _disappeared _at the hands of gypsies you provoked, but then kisses you the moment she sees you as if she previously couldn't breathe and you were her lungs… Christine Daae was a rare element that even the most dignified scientists wouldn't ever be able to comprehend.

And now, with her beside me, I wasn't sure if I wanted to cry at the hem of her gown, kiss her perfect lips, or run away as far as my legs would take me. The aloof persona I'd adopt always slipped around her, and I suddenly felt extremely vulnerable.

I watched her face as she watched my fingers twine with hers; her button nose wriggled into a slight smile as her lush lips tilted up, and those heavy eyelashes were a curtain that she peered through intently. What was she thinking? Mixed with her alabaster skin, tumbling ringlets, and distracting décolletage, I almost expected her touch to burn my unworthy skin.

She did not flinch—in fact, she gripped my hand tighter! Moisture webbed my eyes as I realized that this was the first time anyone had let my naked palm touch theirs, my fingers dance over the soft skin on the back of the hand, or let my forearm lay against theirs… Never had some willingly held my hand for a reason other than necessity, while even those memories were blurred around the edges.

At first my entire arm was stiff as we snaked through the sentinel trees, but after I calmed, so did my muscles. Christine glanced wildly around her, trying to decide if we were being followed in a determined twist of her features that I found very endearing. I studied her expressions curiously as her face grew pensive, and then narrowed my eyes further as she leaned into me, the shadowing moon highlighting the blush on her cheeks and the flutter of her heavy lids. Ever the experimenter, I moved my thumb from its circling and lessened the pressure so that my finger was only ghosting the inside of her wrist.

My brow shot up as I watched her sway even closer to me with each step, her lips parting like a rose blooms.

Ignoring the fact that my adrenaline from danger, combined with the reactions my slight touch was evoking from lissome Christine, was heightening my arousal, I walked at a more brisk pace until we finally reached the first trapdoor—thankfully, not the one I had killed Besnik near. Blowing a breath across my tongue, I slid each of my questions and unfathomable discoveries to the back of my mind, and fingered the dagger with my other hand.

Now was _not _the time for distractions.

The sea-misted air, fogged with the sharp aroma of meats cooking, made the underside of my mask damp, and I swallowed the taste of salt while Nadir rummaged for the entrance Raoul had marked on the map. That boy had left the concert, but then Marcus and John had exited that direction as well… as long as it didn't interfere with the plan, I was going to remain calm. _Calm. _

The trees bristled, and I whipped my head in search of the hidden danger, subconsciously stepping in front of Christine. The dagger grew heavy and the buzzing adrenaline spiked through my veins. Christine was alive and near me, but one wrong move, and she could be taken and punished wholly for my wrongs.

The door finally swung open, and Nadir descended first, grabbing a torch from a sconce and lighting it until blue flames licked upwards.

Christine stepped onto the first step, her large eyes exactly the same as from when she was a child, glistening and frightened... She pulled my cloak tighter around her shoulders, and then stared at her fingers. "Where is Raoul?" her silky voice asked with a noticeable quiver. At that precise moment, the moon caught one particular finger and burst it into a million tiny rays. _The ring._ My entire insides sagged, but I remained stoic, closing my eyes briefly to calm my turning mind and murdered hope. Yes, I had given it back to her as a promise of my rescue… but, it was still her engagement ring to Raoul. _That _promise, of marriage, still reflected in each diamond.

I was a plaything, now was I? Nadir looked up, the fire turning his mask into the sun.

Keeping my voice measured, I responded, "He is safe with the others, Marcus and John." I ignored the way her shoulders dropped in relief, and spoke through my teeth, "he'll be with us quite shortly, Madame." She quickly looked at me in confusion, doe-eyes reflecting the colored lights like a poignant stained-glass window, but I halted her words.

"Come," I nodded to the stairs and gestured for her to continue down with a sequential roll of my wrist and fingers, making sure to graze her waist as she began to walk.

Two could duel in the game of hearts.

I let my eyes linger once more on the oblivious carnival-goers before shutting the door above us with a small click, unsatisfied, seeing as I wished to slam the damn thing. Once again in the underground dwelling of those discarded and ignored, the darkness swallowed all outside of the flame's gold-drenched orb.

It was silent as we walked, Nadir leading, and I protecting from behind. Still, the air felt odd, as if it were waiting along with us to be disturbed. Christine held her fists clenched at her sides, rubbing the ring with her thumb.

What it even meant? My intellect failed me. Around her neck by a chain, in my fingers at the Bal Masque, back in her hand in my lair, on her finger for one brief moment as she kissed me, placed in my palm by the music box, and then curled back in hers while she slept near gypsies... Hell knew what it symbolized now.

The flick of the flame and the scuff of our steps being the only sounds, we followed the maze of circus props and grime until we reached another set of stairs. Nadir handed the torch to me and then climbed up, giving the door a shove. A sound of metal clanked after each attempt.

"Daroga…"

He grumbled and shook his head as he came back down. Christine glanced between us.

"Locked," he sighed hollowly. Handing him the torch, I trudged up the stone stairs, aware of Christine's body brushing mine as she followed.

Opponent versus opponent, the tense energy between us was charged and palpable. I felt her eyes roam my face questioningly, but I kept mine unflinchingly forward. The top was flanked with walls on both sides, and, consequently, forced the minx to stand flush against my side in order to be on the same step.

My body's betraying reactions raged, and I cursed my weakness around her. One word and I was her slave. One touch and my thoughts fled. And the ring. The ring… I couldn't imagine that she wore it for anyone other than the boy. She kissed me goodbye by that table, assured herself that her Angel of Music lived, and now she stood by me, her comforting guardian, as I returned her back to her fiancé.

But, I was no angel.

**Christine**

**.**

**.**

Erik was an unyielding wall pressed against my side, as unrelenting as the stone one to my left, and I tried to tear the shield with my eyes. I had asked where Raoul was, and then his entire demeanor froze slowly like webbed ice on glass. Yes, I knew that he did not care for Raoul by any means, but they had come here together—and both remained alive. It was a viable question, and yet, I had the feeling that it dug up the grave of the past.

And the past haunted Erik even more than I.

Though, I did have a right to know where Raoul was, to make sure he was alright in this horrid place! Erik could not blame me for caring for the livelihood of another human being—my dearest friend that I loved!

Though, there seemed to be something else wrong when I looked at him, the way his breaths came out in a forcibly steady manner. I did not have the courage to ask, nor the time, for Erik brought his arm up to try the door above us. A shudder chased itself down to my toes and, likely, into the ground as his hand, trapped against me, moved slowly up along my lower stomach, torso, and then ghosted my breasts until it finally was free to move in open air. The affected skin throbbed in the perfect line his hand had drawn, and my mouth gaped open as I stared at him.

He still was not looking at me, but as the door opened an inch and let in the light of the moon, I was certain I detected the slightest smirk. So, this was a joke to him? A conquest over my senses, just as in _Don Juan_?

The metal clank sounded again, and Erik let out a masculine grunt through his teeth as he slammed upwards again and again, the muscles in his arms tense against my shoulder. Growling in the back of his throat, he jammed his fingers into the small opening, eyes narrowed in concentration as he likely searched for the lock.

"They're either smart, or we're incredibly stupid." He muttered to himself. Erik looked down at me. Moving my queen across the chess board, I averted eye contact and pretended to focus on the problem at hand, forcing myself even closer until I believed our skin might merge. Brushing my bosom against his chest, I bared my neck for his view and stood on the tips of my toes, feeling the blaze of victory as his steady breaths quickened. I peered at the sight of land through the crack, and despite doing so just to serve Erik his own medicine, the picture was almost otherworldly when seen against the breathing darkness of the underground tunnels.

Starlit, lavender sand rolled outwards until it met the water, which glowed a grey-green beneath the ethereal light of the moon. Sand scattered across the dipping dunes at a fast rate, scratching along in rustles to form the only sound other than the soft splashes of the ocean. Ever erratic, the wind changed course, and the grains of sand flew in through the crack, leaving me just enough time to clench my eyes shut and turn into Erik's chest before they could scrape my eyes. His heartbeat pounded against my cheek, and I suddenly felt extremely foolish for ever pretending he was only a phantom. Ever thinking him merely a shade whose eyes glowed behind every wall. It had been easier that way at the time.

He let the door—our means of escape—fall with a thud, whispering into my ear, cruelly rolling that 'r', "You best be more careful, Christine." I had a strong feeling that the warning had a dual meaning.

Erik squeezed by and descended the stairs slowly, leaving my body extremely cold. I pulled his cloak tighter around my shoulders as I joined the two men's conversation.

"We have to go back," Nadir implored. "These aren't the Opera house's tunnels; they don't all lead back to one place. We could be lost for days."

Erik leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

"Do none other tunnels lead to one of the ports here?" I questioned, remembering how much land the beach had stretched when I had viewed it from the steamship.

Nadir began to pace. "Raoul planned on going another way and meeting us here. We were able to find Christine rather quickly," he continued, addressing Erik. "If we go back now, we could stay hidden and find the Vicomte, follow him, and leave together."

Erik opened his eyes and let out a very long-held breath. "Well, let's not waste time then."

Grabbing the torch from Nadir, he briskly walked away, Nadir in tow behind me. Blocking out the Persian from sight, I was overcome with a monolithic bout of déjà vu. That first night, when he led me through the mirror, gold playing upon every contour of his face and mask, blazing his eyes until they were too intense to look away from…

Darkness was his domain, forcibly after many years, but it was saddening to see how well he breathed in it, how much more he welcomed it. I shuddered.

Finally reaching where we had begun, at the door behind the vendor's cart, I halted the two men before they opened the door. I couldn't simply walk out there after performing a concert where all eyes had been on me. Precautions had to be taken.

"Hand me the dagger," I demanded, almost laughing at their wide eyes.

Most likely sensing the determination in my voice, Erik cocked his head and unsheathed the knife, placing it in my palm.

Making quick work, I first rubbed my eyelids until the smoky eyeshadow was painted on my hand; then, after pulling the gaudy pins out of my hair, I chopped at it until rested in the middle of my shoulder blades. My head immediately felt lighter, but now my one favorable feature was severed. Though, how shallow was I to let that be a worry? I eyed Erik tentatively, gauging his reaction, for his was the only one I really cared for. He studied my movements with a startling intensity that oddly thrilled me in the dark of the tunnel, and I bent quickly back to my task in case the torch-light caught the blush on my cheek.

Next, I used the blade to run along the seam at the bodice of my dress and take off the translucent top layer of the skirt. Instead of midnight blue, the bottom of the dress was now a deep evergreen. I tried to cut off my sleeves, but I was afraid to press too hard and cut my arm, therefore the blade would not go through the fabric.

Voices teetered back and forth like the rustling of leaves.

Sensing a presence, I looked up and right into Erik's eyes.

A slam resounded after Nadir slipped through the door, leaving Erik and I alone.

Already a little loose around the seams, he grabbed my shoulders gently and, with an impossibly deft movement, ripped each sleeve off.

The air swam around our skin as our breaths waltzed in the dark, and my bare arms prickled with ice.

His lips were only inches from mine, and he leaned in with measured slowness. I closed my eyes and parted my lips expectantly, but he did not close the space. Instead, he murmured smoothly in my ear, "my gloves, if you would be so kind." The strength in my knees dripped away, and I slammed my palm against the wall to keep myself upright as his leg nearly wedged itself between mine.

Feeling sheepish at my weakness, I straightened and reached into the pocket, roughly handing him the leather. He then extricated the dagger from my grasp and turned his back.

_God, what does this man do to me? _

Chips and measured scrapes sounded from near Erik, head bent in concentration, and his arm moved in rigid lines as he seemed to carve at something.

Ignoring my curiosity, I ripped the maroon ribbon from my bodice, wincing as I continued the destruction of my Queen of the Night gown. I tied the velvet around my neck. Further changing my appearance, I folded the cowl of Erik's cloak down until it disappeared in the fabric, and draped it at my elbows like a shawl.

The silence suffocating, it seemed only fitting for Erik's effectual voice to break it.

"My dear," he drawled none too kindly, presenting a gold mask. I recognized it being the one Nadir had worn, but Erik had transformed it. Now it reached just to my nose and above my brows, winging off in a feminine flourish.

He brought it to my face with a look of collected focus, and tied the ribbon around my head. I almost sensed a fleeting smile when I thanked him. But, it was apparent that he was not yet finished with whatever pointless game he was igniting, for he turned and walked away when it would have been thought that he would take my hand.

Slightly miffed at his volatile nature, I followed with my finger twirling the ring.

Stepping up to the earth above, we landed right in the heart of carnival chaos, the dank tunnels disappearing as an afterthought.

After waiting for a moment when no one appeared observant, Erik and I leapt into the melee of colors. He took my fingers and wrapped them into the crook of his arm, laughing and gazing down at me with such love that my steps faltered. His eyes narrowed, and I assumed my role, leaning my head on his shoulder and pointing out the sights, trying to calm the hammering of my heart.

It was strange, the masked man peeling off his shadows, and the orphaned soprano breaking her bondage to fear and confusion on this night that held both in high volume. Turmoil of feelings boiling right below our skin, we wore our masks well and played characters within characters, letting our souls only escape to speak through the sensation of touch.

But, it was also wildly enjoyable, relishing in such normalcies always denied, even if it was only to remain hidden under the searching eyes of the moon and gypsies.

Oscar was somewhere, lurking, and gypsies might be sharpening their knives, the tips gleaming as bright as their sick smiles… my skin crawled as doubts plagued me—what if we didn't all make it out? I gripped Erik's arm tighter, and he placed his chin on top of my head, his entire body rigid as if he was holding his breath.

I closed my eyes and pretended we were just strolling in a town by the sea, romance swirling our steps as we held on to the warmth of the other's heart. It was almost easy, letting the mind meld to a pleasant buzz and the menial conversations of others make you feel less tragic.

After a few minutes of deliberately matched pace to the others, the musicians suddenly swept in to circle the crowd and began to play a racing waltz.

The clock's hand rose slowly like a graceful ballerina, and the park was frantically juicing the last of its raucous before the dying lights of the attractions, and the carnival-goers' eyes, extinguished.

The cobbled stone turned to a dance floor in a blink, and each couple immediately began to spin in merriment at the delightful finale. Cellos and violins, drums and trumpets, calliopes and harps, the Danse Macabre poured forth and ambushed the revelers in its demanding dance.

I looked to Erik with wide eyes, but he had already gripped my waist and pulled me to him until only a hairs width separated us. Somehow, that affected my body even more than his touch, or maybe it was because I _wanted _him to touch me, but, I melted against him and let his intricate steps lead us into a flurry of the swirling gowns I had previously only viewed through the dancehall's window.

The lights slipped through each fold and crook of movement, and laughter floated like mist. Masks glinted like mischievous ghouls. If I could freeze any moment—yes, in the midst of a night where bloodlust searched for its prey—it would be the one at present.

Faster, faster, and faster we waltzed, and I couldn't help but think of the Bal Masque. Now garbed in a dark red, his demeanor was even more cryptic. A shadow with glowing blue eyes against a black landscape, his firm fingers gripped at my skin and soul. His lips pursed into a stoic frown, and I inhaled his scent, succumbing to his enigmatic appeal. If only I could breach the barrier between us! But, it seemed that he was dedicated to his ghostly role of Mystery dancing with his maiden.

Gentle and simple would never be enough.

I did not know what to say, and yet, I did not need to say a word; the past wove seamlessly through our movements in a conversation far more eloquent than the one that occurred that night I was taken: his fingers gripped mine the way they had that first time at the glowing mirror, gently but with coiled passion; his eyes closed in the manner they had just seconds before I took the mask from his face that next morning, unbelievably calm, yet still somehow pained; his feet moved mechanically, the powerful way he descended those foyer stairs, the professional steps of a heated swordfight; his head leaned to the side softly, the way it had when I sang his opera, concentrated, disbelieving, and almost indulging; and, of course, his other hand gripped my waist in what could be considered possession, the personality trait of that need to claim cloaking him like a shadow. My breast pressed to his, I was whisked back to both times we had kissed, and the bottom of my stomach thrummed. Piercing sea blue eyes cutting into mine, I stared, captivated, the most silent understandings streaming through that eye contact. We both acknowledged the past for what it was, for how it would always haunt, but there was a certain revelation in that thought.

For, the past fades, and the future beckons. What-could-be reigned, and what-was sat merely in the empty shadows of the throne.

All too soon, the infuriating herald of the night, Reality, broke through the sheer veil of ignorance and forced the night's woes to the forefront of our minds when the clock chimed in echoing booms. With squawks and clanks, the musicians wiped their foreheads and packed up their instruments.

The haze of my head lifting and, replacing itself with alertness, I touched my hair and smoothed the front of my dress, following Erik as he whisked us behind a crowd of people. The moment had ended as abrupt and cruel as a particularly indulging dream.

Reaching the carousel, I stared at the porcelain horses' frozen faces as Erik spoke, "Nadir was supposed to meet us here." His voice was calm, but his eyes were darting.

"Maybe he is trying to find Raoul?" I supplied, hoping he wouldn't react the way he had before to that name.

Erik walked to an area hidden from the main street and bent down, shaking his head. Another trap-door.

"No," he opened the top. "This should have a lock on it. And he said, under every circumstance—"

"Erik, Christine, there you are!" Nadir seemingly materialized from thin air like an apparition, his face melting in relief. "I began to look for you, but thankfully heard the lovely voice of Miss Daae and was drawn back like a man follows a siren before I ventured too far."

I blushed, deciding that I greatly liked Nadir. His jovial nature and warm eyes made me feel safe, and the way he acted around Erik gave me hope that the tortured man's life was interspersed with _some _color from the outer-world.

"Now was certainly not the time to be fashionably late," Erik grumbled, but his posture had softened. Nadir laughed once and quipped back some cryptic comment about Persia.

I glanced around my shoulders as they furtively opened the door, watching the shadows of the park leave towards resorts, bottles clinking and the tinkling of women's laughter growing more distant with each second that passed. Lights dimmed one by one, and I pulled the makeshift shawl over my arms to fight the chill.

"Age before beauty," Erik motioned to Nadir, the usual edge to his voice. _Yearns for beauty, secretly…_

Compassionate sadness pulled down the corners of my lips, and I stepped into the void after the Persian, Erik moving to follow behind.

I knew something was wrong when he did not move.

Turning slowly, I looked into eyes that had widened considerably, and then narrowed into slits.  
"Bored," he enunciated with venom, "were you, with your games? I was enjoying myself rather immensely."

A huge weight plummeted into my stomach, and I peered around Erik's statuesque form to see the gleaming barrel of a gun pressed to the back of his skull, Nadya unflinchingly holding it.

"_No," _I moaned, Nadir rushing to my side with his handgun raised in the air.

Nadya spoke only to Erik, "You murder my husband, then my son, and then my nephew just this morning. You are a monster," she spit to the side, "and I'm sure you remember what we do to monsters here." Erik's chin nearly touched his chest as Nadya ground the gun harder against his head.

_So it was true. The scars. _Tears flew down my cheeks as the surreal calmness of the night was ripped away by the waiting servants of Hell.

"The girl. Bring me Daae." Emilian appeared by her side with a large knife, and Nadir moved his gun to aim at his head. "You shoot," Nadya cut through the air like glass, "your _friend's _deformed brain paints the walls."

Emilian descended the steps with the safety of the threat lifting a smile on his doughy cheeks, and he gripped my forearm roughly, sticking the knife against my throat as I attempted to swing at him. My limbs ceased their struggle, and my heart seemingly stopped. Erik's eyes widened in horror and I watched his lips twist into a snarl, but I could not hear what he yelled.

The situation impossible to change, Nadir lowered his gun and leaned against the wall in defeat. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded to Erik and me. With the smell of incense and anticipating sweat, Erik and I were led to our gallows.

….

The dancehall was now to host my wedding to Yoska. The ghosts of the masqueraders continued to waltz each time I closed my eyes, but when I opened them, I only saw a white wedding dress, marble floors, and dimming lights. I only felt violated and stripped of my dignity. My tears painted the neckline of the dress with makeup.

Numb detachment settled over me as I glanced around the room, flowers scattering the ground in crimson red. Roses. I wanted to laugh.

Nadya leaned against one wall, appraising me coldly as she waited, waited, waited…

The door ripped open suddenly, and all of my strength left my body at the sight I beheld, a strangled scream escaping my lips, yet I did not even hear it. Erik and Raoul were marched into the room, arms bound and eyes riveted on me. Fear and desperation snaked over my skin.

Erik was without his mask and wig, his shirt ripped open in the front and webbed with scarlet. A deep red slashed in an angry line along his shoulder, and poured from his lip. The beginning colors of bruises crowded the sensitive areas of his skin. He did not look like he should still be alive, wounds appearing where every I looked.

Raoul, strangely, seemed untouched aside from a purple black-eye and sticky red on the side of his head, but his face spoke of much worse.

Behind them were Emilian and Yoska, though the latter appeared to want to throw up, his face turned away from his father.

Two chairs were set near me, and the tortured men were tied to them, Emilian playing with a dagger near their throats. Almost exactly like my fevered dream…

Nadya clapped and cheerfully proclaimed, "Well, let's begin!"

Yoska glared at her, "Nadya…" But, she slapped him hard, the sound echoing harshly off of the cream walls.

Blood rolled down Erik's face in mock tears, and Raoul's gaunt eyes bore into my soul.

_No, no, no, _my vision swayed. All my fault! All mine! The chandelier above us seemed to pulse as my vision dotted with black. The chandelier on my finger pulsed as well, my fingers shaking until they vibrated against my stomach. I sank to the floor in a pool of white, gripping petals in my trembling fingers until they were stained red.

"Silence," she demanded. "You _will_ marry the girl." Then the continuing voices faded behind my ears as my thoughts dove inwards.

Marriage, or someone I loved would die. A wedding dress, a threat, the racing mind. It was too similar, like the past enjoying my anguish so greatly that it decided to repeat itself. Just as then, time raced, my thoughts turned off, and my movements grew frantic. So recent, and yet Erik seemed so different now - purged of whatever had possessed him that night.

Practically shoved by Emilian, Yoska stood in front of me, so much remorse written into the brown of his eyes. Nadya waved the gun in my face, and I marched forward in what felt like a funeral procession, the ring on my finger burning and cutting my heart as my eyes never left Erik's and Raoul's. They were glued helplessly.

I watched their chests rise and fall unevenly until that image blurred in my eyes. One step closer…

"Stop. Nadya, you've gone mad!" Yoska held up his hands when she pointed the gun at his chest. Then, as if speaking to a cornering animal, "We should leave in peace, now, before it is too late. But, I will not say the vows."

Her hand shook wildly, but Emilian cut through the pending shot, inquiring, "What is on your finger? What is that ring?"

I looked up and felt everyone's eyes on me, some more intense than others. Holding my left hand protectively in my right, I answered with as much confidence as I could muster, "I… I am already married. Any vows I might say tonight would be void."

Lifting my chin, I watched Emilian's oily eyebrow rise into his forehead. "And just who are you married to?"

Time held its breath, but I already knew my answer. I had known my answer for a very long time. Gathering my breath to prepare to plunge the knife into the other's chest, I closed my eyes. There was only one man I would ever belong to, one man who I could wholly share my candlelit soul with.

That night, so long ago, I had slipped the ring on my finger and kissed him out of love with God as my witness. Then, I had left him with a promise, placing that ring in his left palm. The vows had been the language of our spirits, as real as any spoken word.

In a way, we had always been married.

"Erik," I breathed, opening my eyes as I heard the soft gasp from him. Turning to my side, a large kick pounded my stomach at the sight Raoul's eyes. His head was lowered slightly, but his gaze was not surprised at all. The green orbs were only gaunt, empty, and sad. I knit my brows together and implored his understanding. The tiniest flicker of a smile appeared on his lip, one of surrender, and he nodded.

A shot hit the ceiling, and I frantically turned to Emilian, who had taken the gun from Nadya.

The next events proceeded so calculated and fast, that I felt like I was on a stage with no script, holding blood red petals and the fabric of the wedding gown.

A knife was thrown in the air, somersaulting in fearsome precision, and I whipped my head towards Erik, his bloody hands free and eyes narrowed in both pain and concentration, watching the tip sink into Emilian's torso just as another shot rang. The bullet missed its target and grazed Raoul's arm, the gun falling from Emilian's hands and sliding towards the chairs.

Letting out a yell, Raoul grabbed his arm and then lunged for the gun, somehow having been freed of his binds as well. With his non-dominant arm, he shot Nadya and missed just shy of her leg. He moved to shoot again, but clumsy with his bad arm, he dropped the gun and it slid like ice away on the marble, away from the two men.

I began to run towards them with crazed fervor, the smell of blood making bile rise in my throat, but Nadya smacked me so hard across the cheek that my ears buzzed and I fell to my knees.

But, I needed to reach them! I needed to get them away from Death, black-cloaked shadow that sneered and raised his reaper above each head.

Erik gripped the rope that had served as his binds in his hands and stumbled forward, attempting to wrap it around Nadya's neck, but with the purple splotches on his fingers and rings of red around his cut wrists, it was clear that the bones were broken. I curled in on myself, watching the fingers that would race up an ivory organ now stiff and shuddering in agony.

With the look of a feral cat, she pounced forward with a knife she produced from her skirts and sliced a deep scarlet line across Erik's upper-torso. He collapsed to the ground, broken knuckles bracing the marble. My throat was raw from screaming at the sight of the blood that blanketed him.

The knife shining a challenge as it waved in the air, I collapsed till my elbows knocked with the hard floor. Reaching out my hand, I crawled forward and leaned my head near Erik's boot. Before I could even touch him, she kicked me hard in the ribs, and I rolled on the ground against the pain that stole my breath.

Wheezing, I coughed out, "Don't hurt him. Please, _please._"

A laugh escaped her lips, but was cut off when Raoul ran forward with his fist poised and eyes fiercely protective.

His face was almost beautiful with the bruised eyelid, pigmented violets surrounding his sunlit grassy eyes. The blood on his head didn't have to be there if I didn't choose to look at it, and I didn't. Instead, I watched him as a knight, a little boy running through the waves to chase invisible pirates.

The wave opened its arms with a twisted smile, the trough pointed and gleaming at his chest. I knew he shouldn't continue on, so I rolled over on top of my arm and tried to warn him.

But, a booming voice shattered the wave and opened the curtains of my mind. The sights, sounds, smells, and growing pain returned.

"Now, Nadya, is this how we treat guests?" Oscar sauntered in, but he was not alone.

In came a middle-aged couple that I knew very well. At a lace-clothed table with carved silver and delicate glass; giving me looks of disdain through doorways, sitting on chaise lounges; gowns and nobility, ascots and family crests…

Raoul looked up at his parents as if they were ghosts, and they might as well have been.

"_What do you want with them?"_ He hissed, eyes still registering complete disbelief. Another piece of France in this veritable Hell. _France._ Where were Meg and Madame? Did they wonder where I was? Was Meg dancing, spinning like a top in circles until every image in her sight grew tails, and stars danced, and pricks of needles poked behind her eyes…

I clutched my forehead dizzily as one clutches to reality, and peered up at the new guests, feeling as if I was drowning with the wedding dress pulling me beneath the heavy air.

Both tied at the arms, the Comtesse's tears streamed into her elegant wrinkles, and the Comte glared at Oscar. You could tell that they both were no stranger to Mr. Hammerstein. Isobel de Chagny pierced my soul with eyes full of blame, and I knew I deserved it. I was the reason all of them were here in this twisted game, the reason why Raoul's arm poured over with blood from the bullet wound. The two men I loved, frozen like portraits, marbled eyes filled with liquid pain. Raoul watched his parents, but Erik watched only me.

Oscar surveyed the crowd of blood and rose petals, a sick gleam in his eyes as they focused on Raoul. I crawled on my bruised knees, wishing with my heart of hearts for this to all just be a nightmare. But, each time I opened my eyes, the deathly scene still remained.

No one was looking— _just a little bit closer._ I had almost reached the crumpled man that was always full of such power and dominance, stalking down the steps of the Populaire's foyer like a hypnotizing spectre. Bruised arms that held me tight in dance, broken fingers that wound in my hair, bloody lips that had only touched mine, a breathing chest that stirred new blood in the wounds atop…

Just one inch closer.

My fingers grazed the air just shy of Erik before I was yanked backwards and up to my feet, a knife again gracing my neck as the sound of bloodlust-filled breaths whispered harshly in my ear.

The room went silent save for the flickering of the candles.

"Nadya, you don't have to do this," I managed to form over cotton, the words seeming the correct ones to say in such a situation, but Nadya was gone just as I was. Revenge had taken over, and no compassion or humanity could be found in her stiff grip of the knife.

Overwhelmed, nothing took over inside of me. I only shut down, vague forms swaying around my vision.

"_SILENCE," _she screamed, pushing the knife further until the smell of metal invaded my nose.

A glint sparkled to my left, and I forced my eyes to clear—fought the all-too familiar numbing daze that my body adopted so willingly.

My body struggled in the gypsy's unyielding hold, but my mind did not. For how could it when it had left?

Oscar twirled his sword against the marble floor, pushing aside a leftover mask from the night's revelries.

"Do you know what it is like," he spoke to no one in particular, or maybe to everyone, "to feel a sword, this long, drag in and out of your stomach each time you looked at your best friend."

"Oscar…" Freder— yes, Frederick de Chagny grunted against his binds.

"Each time you watched him kiss the only love of your life?" he spit. Isobel lowered her head and began to sob.

_Your lover makes a passionate plea._

"Each time you replayed the night she left you at the chapel with your dreams of elopement, escape, and a family over and over? Or, even each time you heard news of their perfect son?"

_We had such hopes, but now those hopes are shattered._

He laughed coldly, and I watched Erik struggle to sit up, his arm wrapped around his stomach. Those eyes… I wished he could hear me, but my lips would not move. Raoul rocked forward on his feet, his knuckles white in clenched fists. I wished I could hold Raoul as well, to protect his parents from Oscar, though they never liked me - to protect him from the poised intent of Oscar's words.

I would not look away from either man.

"I came to America to escape you, Isobel," he seemed to address Raoul's mother, his voice unbelievably soft. "But, you haunted more vivid than a ghost."

"For, was it not our daughter that I was forced to raise alone, the one whose likeness is exactly yours?"

_Likeness is exactly yours… the mannequin. _Random words spurred my mind to swim between the past and present, and two scenes interchanged each time I blinked.

_Daughter? _I could picture the intense stare of the Comte boring into his wife; there was no need to look. Isobel's sobs grew louder, crawling into my ears until they sounded as mine had as I stood by the monkey music box .

Raoul was trapped behind the bars of disbelief, yet he could have been tied to a portcullis, knee-deep in a subterranean lake.

The desperation in Oscar's voice could've been the way Erik yelled as he held the noose.

Oscar Hammerstein began to pace.

There was a sudden, keen instinct of silence that we all followed, for from the coiled demeanor of Oscar, it was clear that one word would snap his docility in two. But, the voices in my head continued, for only I could hear them, melding into a trio of helplessness.

Erik looked around the room, the wheels of his mind visibly turning as he looked for a way out. He then looked down at his broken hands and looked away. My hand yearned to cup his cheek, my lips to kiss each scar, physical and mental, but we were all trapped in invisible cages. The similarities of this night to the night of _Don Juan _unnerved me, and I searched Erik's face, looking for any remnants of that dangerous vortex of the mind that had possessed him as it possessed Oscar now.

"Oscar," Isobel whispered, the lofty Comtess being replaced with the voice of a scared, young girl. "Please—"

_Angel of Music, who deserves this? _

The doors burst open with a large slam, and I finally moved my gaze from Erik and saw the informant of the gypsies fly through with Selina in tow. She looked around and fell in a heap, her eyes filled with shock as they lay on the small bead of blood rolling down my neck, the still body of Emilian, and the two battered men she had yet to meet.

"Marcus!" Oscar exclaimed cheerfully, flourishing his words with the tip of his sword. _Marcus… _the one who pretended to have killed Erik, the blood… My breaths came labored, Nadya's unflinching presence holding my life in its palm. That had all been a ploy, but now I watched Erik's eyes as they watched mine, his eyelids fluttering as he grappled for any strength in his cracked bones. It was painful to watch him breathe! Just as it was painful to watch Raoul breathe with his neck encircled in rope… I squeezed my eyes shut against the memory, of how much my actions have always hurt him.

A crack pierced the air.

Extremely steady, Marcus' arm remained in a straight arrow with his gun, the bullet already in Oscar's arm. The only register of pain being a gasp, Oscar held his wound and began to laugh. His calm, impresario façade drifted away and became replaced fully by maddened logic.

"Growing a backbone, are we?" Oscar began to walk slowly over to Marcus. "My boy. Thickheaded, but not strong enough to finish a man's job." Marcus' lip quivered and he cocked the gun again.

I pretended Erik was upright and standing by my shoulder, skin smooth like marble and presence strong and healthy. Before all of this. Before I had taken the mask and begun the downfall of our lives, as absolute as a line of tipping dominoes.

The image kept me erect, as if held up by a string, and my breaths began to slow as they passed my dry lips.

The thought of his voice, humming the encompassment of beauty into my head like a cool, comforting mist, beckoned gently, but I was not allowed to leave this room and follow it.

"Kill me, boy! Make your father proud! You have every right to want to end my life." Oscar spread his arms open and bent backwards at the waist, preparing to almost embrace death in the most sickeningly indifferent kind of way.

"You were never my father," Marcus growled, the sweat on his brow reflecting the candles. Nadya's stance grew impatient behind my back as her task was delayed by this father-son reunion.

_Farewell my fallen idol and false friend._

"Yes, yes, get angry! Let the ire take over—give into it." The gun began to shake like it was trying to break in half in Marcus' grasp.

"_SHOOT ME," _Oscar bellowed, stalking over to Raoul and pointing the tip of the sword at his chest. Raoul, breaking out of his daze by shaking his head, looked on the floor for the gun he had dropped, but Oscar kicked it behind him. "Or, this boy dies. It's an easy choice, really!"

_Either way you choose you cannot win._

My screams could have been mute for all they achieved, so instead I whimpered, asking my father and every saint to end this now. Trapped in a clear box where my nightmares raged, no one could hear me.

"Marcus…" Raoul started, pleading with his eyes. But, he didn't have to finish. Oscar hit the ground with the revolting sound of heavy bones cracking, the shot ringing almost as loud as the fallen sword.

Dumbfounded, Marcus stared at his gun, but there no smoke coming from the barrel. I looked up to see Nadir standing in the doorway, having likely slipped in when no one was looking. He lowered his weapon and looked at the grim settings, the kohl beneath his eyes smeared so that he looked like a skilled tribal warrior in a long maroon cape, the color of the morning before a storm.

Erik, appearing livid at his inability to contribute, pushed off of the ground, smearing the floor with his blood, and slowly got to his feet, "Daroga," he growled, "Now was _definitely_ not the time to be fashionably late."

The words brought me back to the waltz, and I welcomed the diversion from the deeper past, closing my eyes and breathing in time to the silent music, feeling Erik's arms around my waist like a welcome home. Not the way he had grabbed me after I took his mask on that bridge.

With an inhuman gurgle, Nadya pulled me backwards, and I yelled as she gripped my jaw and forced me to look at him, or maybe forced Erik to look at me. He crowned Nadya with a raging look of hate, but then his expression melted when he finally met my gaze. Full of love, remorse, a shine of wonder, and thick pain, his blue eyes were especially bright against the reddened right side of his face. Blood from his head continued to drip down his left until he appeared to be completely colored in the substance as dark as his carnival costume had been.

I wanted to crawl into the blue of his eyes like a gossamer presence and escape the fires of Hell that reached for every mortal, Death still floating above, and blood still forming a River Seine.

"We gave you food and shelter when your own mother left you to die. What did you repay?" Erik's mouth opened, and I felt each lash of the whip against his back, each beating, each night crying for mercy… all from the look on his tortured face, I knew.

Abhorrence boiled for the woman standing behind me. And I was finished feeling helpless.

With a surge of viciousness, I bared my ring and ripped it upwards into her cheek. She staggered, and I tried to wriggle away, but her need for revenge was larger. The glinting knife pointed into my stomach as she frantically regained hold of me.

"You'll pay for that, you bitch!"

"_Christine," _Erik pleaded at the same moment Selina screamed, "Nadya, no!"

_Christine, I love you..._

A strange calm settled over me, and I turned my head from the gypsies, instead, watching Oscar die as one watches an opera.

Marcus remained staring blankly at the last wisps of life leaving his father, and Raoul watched in that still frozen shock as his mother yelped and ran to Oscar's side.

The shot seemed to have woken his sanity, and Oscar coughed and mumbled against the blood entering his lungs, his chest a fountain of wine that began to paint the milk-swirled floor. They exchanged no words, no apologies. But, I gazed upon the gory scene as Oscar's eyes went still and Isobel sobbed on top of his chest, her bound hands pulled behind her. The Comte looked at his old, fallen friend with disgust, but also keen regret.

I almost didn't feel the dagger brushing the soft flesh of my stomach through the wedding gown.

If I didn't look, I didn't have to feel it, and I didn't.

**Erik**

**.**

**.**

Each and every one of my caged demons broke free from their bondage and raged within my body in painful crescendos as I watched the ones who had shattered my life begin to drive a dagger into the one who had willingly entered the task of sealing the cracks with her warm touch.

They had tortured me the same way they had so many years ago: breaking fingers when I failed to perform the right magic trick, bruising my jaw when I wouldn't sing, lashing my back, scraping my face, burning with white-hot metal rods. The horrific tolerance I had developed to survive those long nights had reawakened tonight, and I had accepted each blow with open eyes and clenched teeth.

My broken bones and knife wounds stripped me of my strength and rendered me useless—a factor that I despised almost as much as the gypsies—but, somehow, my yearning to save Christine became personified in a sheet of dark hair and splash of emerald eyes, running forth in my blackening vision and completing what I physically could not.

Oscar, the man fearsomely paralleling my logic from the night of _Don Juan, _Raoul's bloody _parents_, and Christine Daae waiting serenely with a knife pressed to her stomach… it was almost beautiful in its insanity. But, not the beauty you would ever want to encounter; it was the chaos that calls your eyes like a siren, wiping your mind of sense, and then sinking its teeth in your back while you're still trying to discern how it all came to be.

"You don't have to do this." The girl pleaded. "You are better than this! Don't you remember?" Nadya faltered.

"Remember what?" Her voice was an impatient snap, but she turned her head to the green-eyed girl in curiosity.

"You must… you must think of the times before. You practically raised me! Remember, I would always sneak a taste of the batter when I believed you weren't looking, or pick you wildflowers growing by the camp? Your favorites were the white lilies, and you would put them in my hair."

The woman's eyes glazed over in wistfulness and she nodded her head sharply, shifting her hold on the grip of the dagger. Christine was as still as the golden statues at the Populaire, a goddess with eyes distracted by holy thoughts, and head tilted upwards. Her lips mumbled, but I could only make out the word 'angel.'

I reached for her, but my knife wound burned like fire, and my entire body shuddered as the overwhelming pain stung and prickled my nerves in a frenzy. A fresh surge of blood pervaded my senses, thick warmth and metal.

Christine was a martyr, a saint in her white dress at the pyre. It almost hurt to look at her, remembering with clarity how similar she looked to that night in my home, tears silently staining her pale cheeks. _Painful beauty… _and the ring shining on her finger. She had said my name. _My name… _but I couldn't let that draw my mind away for even a second until this game of murder and revenge vanished.

For, it _would. _

"You were the light of our families, always kind and good, telling stories to brighten the dreariest of times! You didn't deserve the tragedy that befell you, but killing her will not bring them back."

"Won't bring them back," Nadya repeated in a small voice.

"This girl in your arms… Nadya, look at me. She doesn't deserve this either! Someday she must take care of a little one who will pick her flowers and listen to her stories. Do not take that from her. It will not bring them back, and you will have to bear the sin on your grave!"

As Christine was mentioned, she seemingly used force to pull her eyes down, and they landed straight on mine. A sad smile, one of someone who had already given up, crawled up her perfect lips, the ones I still tasted. She closed her eyes shut in expectancy, and her name trembled out of my mouth. I couldn't move; my battered body would not let me move!

With the seconds audible as they ticked and the sound of muffled cries in the background, I watched the gypsy lower the dagger slowly with distracted eyes. The moment it was out of the way, Christine opened her eyes wide, jumped forward, and rushed into my arms in a bundle of brown curls and white skirts.

Pain had never felt so entirely pleasant.

But, the bloodshed was not over.

"My grave…" Nadya muttered to herself, and the younger girl's face contorted in confusion.

"I cannot bring them back," she breathed, eyes downcast on the knife. The continuation of that phrase grew clearer, and I gripped Christine tight against my screaming muscles, shielding her from watching.

"But, I can go to them."

And, with that, Nadya drove the dagger into her own stomach with scarcely a sound.

I studied the blood that bubbled over her lips as she sank to her knees, and then to the ground, the girl burying her head in her skirts with a cry. "_Selina…" _ The gypsy girl, Selina, tilted her chin down and brought her fingers up to Nadya's eyelids, shutting them like the closing petals of flowers.

I felt Christine's lips against my neck, her tears and breath like ice as she prayed vehemently.

At the sound of the fall, Christine turned quickly with a compassionate gasp and slipped slowly from my arms, shaking and walking toward Selina. Her pale arm slipped over the gypsy's trembling back.

_It was over_.

Nadir ran to my side and mumbled beneath his breath about my poor condition. I tried to rip fabric from my shirt to bind my wounds, but my fingers screamed in opposition. A scowl on my face, I turned my head and let Nadir finish the task.

The statues of frozen onlookers began to melt, tears freezing as we all looked around, no one breathing a word. The air was too heavy with broken dreams, revenge, and death, to speak at all.

Yoska, face contorted in grief and pity, went and kneeled by Nadya's side for a moment, whispered a prayer in Romany, and then walked to the other end in the room.

Yet, apparently not all who are dead, remain as such.

"Murderer!" Like a resurrected nightmare, Emilian, in a half-dead daze, emerged from behind a thick pillar and held the knife that was previously in his stomach, his hand a glove of scarlet that dripped slowly to splatter the floor. His other fist bunched into his wound, he stood, seething between crimson-lined teeth.

The breath across my tongue blew slower than the next events that unfolded, each body erupting in sheer panic.

Selina stood up, her skirts stained in Nadya's blood, and opened her mouth to explain otherwise.

Raoul dove for the ground and grabbed the gun Oscar had kicked away before.

Christine dropped her mouth in horror and leapt up, placing herself in the line of the knife with flailing arms and desperate cries.

"_NO!" _I tried to wrench off of my knees and move the angel in white out of the way, "_Someone shoot, now!" _The desperation in my voice raked up my throat.

Yoska ran towards his father and tackled him just as the knife, aimed for the chest, left the gypsy's fingers.

Two shots sounded and met their target, one from Nadir, and one from Raoul, but the knife was still airborne.

Emilian fell to the ground, eyes lifeless the moment the bullet entered his head. The second hit his arm… and plummeted into Yoska's chest. Dying son holding already dead father. I stared callously, though my chest tugged at the sight.

A small sound drew my eyes away from the dead gypsies, and my heart made plans to rip from my chest. Sprawled along the ground was Christine, the knife by her side and her leg staining the wedding dress in the same color that gathered across each surface of the dancehall.

A sigh of relief as large as the ocean brought my whole body to the ground, and I rested my forehead on the cool marble. It was not fatal. _It was not fatal. _

Nadir, the self-appointed doctor, made his way over and ripped part of his shirt, tying it tightly above her wound, and I used my elbows to drag my body over to hers. She fell into my arms like silk, her eyes wide and haunted.

Against my bleeding chest, she sobbed, using her pale fingers to grace over each of my wounds. I suddenly felt like a little boy again, huddling on the ground after endless torture and praying for reprieve.

On those nights, it had never come, but, here… deformed, bloodied, and broken, I held an angel that looked at me with eyes full of _love_. Tears peeled down my cheeks and dripped in a watered pink down onto her face.

In the death-clouded room I couldn't help but become drawn to the diamond star on her finger, its radiance like a holy presence that symbolized: amid darkness and destruction, there would still come light to pierce that vast hold.

For without pain, there is no joy.

.

.

**I'd say the night went fantastic…**

**Hope yours is better. ;)**

**What do you think will happen next? Is it all a happy ending from here? I'm very excited to hear your thoughts and ideas on where this will lead.**

**It will _not _be smooth sailing, quite literally… but is it really ever? **


	15. Chapter 15

**A broken computer foiled my plan to get this chapter to you in two weeks. Trying to remember all of your lost ideas and quickly writing them down before you forget is no easy feat. As always, I am very sorry for the delay. **

**Polite nod to Kay for this concept—remember when Erik lets Christine call for him in the dark caverns as an experiment? Loosely based, but remember, fanfiction does not mean solving every character flaw. That goes for both Christine and Erik in this chapter. Hey, it would be wildly boring if they just rode off into the sunset now! Seriously, after kidnappings, gypsy torture, crazed impresarios, and bloody family reunions… did you really think I'd calm the plot down? You just need to TRUST me ****_and_**** true love, dang it. It always prevails. Speaking of the plot, I made revisions to the finale scene of the last chapter. Not large at all, but I just thought that if Erik recognized the parallels between ****_Don Juan _****night and the dancehall showdown, Christine should as well. You do not have to reread, but I do think this chapter would make more sense if you read that one ending section in Christine's POV. That said, let the journey home commence…**

"One day, whether you are 14, 28 or 65,  
you will stumble upon someone who will start a fire in you that cannot die.  
However, the saddest, most awful truth you will ever come to find––  
is they are not always with whom we spend our lives"

― Beau Taplin, _Hunting Season_

**Christine**

**.**

**.**

Wishing for the cold marble to be on the back of my head, to pierce any sense into my reeling mind, I rolled from Erik's grasp and stared at the ceiling of painted cherubim and mourning saints. Sounds grew hazy around my ears, but the distinct feel of blood smeared against my fingers, grounding me to reality.

The holy image seemed to turn its eyes down on me in disgust, each finger of God's martyrs pointing towards what I felt I couldn't reach at the moment… Death still wove through the air, and sin had already spilled from lost minds. Now there was emptiness.

_Lost… Empty… _

I welcomed the dark that drew in on all sides with a sigh of relief.

...

A sharp prick, a liquid cold flooding my veins, and then nebulous dreams that enveloped my body and destroyed the passages of time until a fuzzy image peeled its corners and left me with an odd clarity that only extended past my fingertips so that I had to squint to see any farther.

The boardwalk was hard and painful, but I walked anyways, seeing the sun rise over the edge of the ocean like a beacon of hope. Splintered wood passed beneath my slipper-clad feet in little scrapes. Raoul... evergreen eyes, tawny hair, impish grin, knobby knees...

A violin droning in the distance.

Was this a dream? Or was I only a little child, the only farce being my father dying, ghosts haunting, and hearts tearing? This could be reality.

"Christine!" Raoul splashed in the shallow waves. So young; not at all the noble man with his sturdy physique, raised chin, and confident steps. Just a boy that would soon be fetched by one of his many nannies.

"Raoul, is the water terrible cold?" I found that I no longer wished to understand. It's okay to indulge... even if I don't belong in the scene.

"Yes, freezing," came his laughing reply. He threw some water at me, and it was _too_ cold. Colder than even the iciest waters should be; the violin grew louder still. Father... He was nowhere to be found, yet I would know his playing anywhere, that spinning melody that wraps your mind tight in bliss. I closed my eyes to savor the sweet sound, but it stopped exactly then.

"Father wouldn't like this." I proclaimed, opening my eyes when there was no response. The sky darkened considerably as I stared at it, and then Raoul was gone, no sign to prove he was even there at all. I was left on a floating dock amidst waves tossed by dark sadistic palms. In the distance was a man dressed in black... Fear slid over my arms, though my heart tugged me insistently forward, my toes reached the edge of the dock, and that ice water stung my skin like knives. Had Death come to claim me?

Eyes both so piercing blue and green that they formed one color I had only seen once in a memory, a smile so sad that I would have done anything to see a real one. Warmth poured from my heart in a familiar way, though I could not place it! Hardened features that spoke of such pain, and I wished to hold him with every fiber of my being. An ache to touch originating in the marrow of my bones. Death? There was nothing evil about him; the only darkness was the charcoal sky around us and the obsidian water beneath. The edges of his figure began to blur, and a frenzied panic suddenly seized my limbs. "_Angel?"_

Without care I took the step that would plunge me into the sea, but... no water met me. That warmth hugged my body and kept me suspended in air, an angel's lips touched to my ear, and I felt more safe than I had in what I was certain was _ever_ in my life. "I'm right here, Christine. I'll always be right here."

**Erik**

**.**

**.**

The gypsy girl prayed over the bodies of her kin, incanting words I had only used to hear through the red and white striped flaps of my tent; Nadir tended to Christine's wound as she lay unconscious just out of my reach, as she always was; and Raoul stepped away from his parents, whom appeared as foreign in this circumstance as Nadir did in the cream aristocracy of France, and knelt carefully by Christine's side, running his knuckles along her cheekbone as his perfect face stared down at hers…

Cringing at how right he appeared at her side, I fought to quell the rush of jealousy over his touch on _my _Christine's face, potent and black like poison making my broken fingers itch to destroy. But she wasn't mine, and I suddenly remembered the air hitting my right cheek. My _abomination_ of a face. A swear under my breath propelled me to bite the pain and swivel to search for the mask, that infernal plaything Oscar had kicked away while delivering his monologue.

Situating it carefully on my face with useless fingers that vibrated in pain, the other hand shuddering in my hair as I attempted to move it over the deformed area of my scalp, I stared at his corpse. Though I did not know him, somewhere, buried beneath the differences between his life and mine, I understood him. A love that drives to madness, one that tugs on your veins like strings to do its bidding.

Oscar rightfully died, just as I should have. That night… I would have killed anyone in my frenzied state, unleashing thirty-seven years of injustices in the futility of unrequited love. Grasping at the rope in the lake that connected to a mortal neck, but only seeing Christine's lips on_ his, _seeing nothing but the snowfall crowning their perfect heads… I should have died, but a kiss had saved me, grabbing my world by the corners and turning with all of its might. Christine's disappearance had allowed me to distract myself from that last night, but the actual adventure of saving her had formed me like clay all the more.

The impresario corpse had not been so lucky.

Christine… I blurred Raoul out of my vision and focused on the dark curls crowning her alabaster features. Even without the pain in my broken body, I knew I wouldn't have touched her in this moment. Personas shed, vulnerability as oozing as my blood, I wouldn't have dared. The stolen moments in between her performance, in the underground tunnels, the ring… they seemed merely a dream. She slept on under the shadow of candlelight, her glittering left hand lost in the white folds of her skirts, but I was awake. I was still all the things I was the night ultimatums were given and lives were joyfully in my palms.

Idly running my bruised finger along the gash below my chest before touching the carnival mask, I turned away.

Children of the devil were bound to be alone.

Before I could leave the inhabitants of the deathly room to their better endings, I first realized that I did not possess the necessary strength to get off the ground; but then the English boy's voice ricocheted off of the closed door to announce his presence, and my attention was diverted.

"Emilian, you promised my money an hour ago, god—!"

John sauntered into the dancehall before blanching whiter than the moon. Marcus did not hesitate to soundly punch him in the nose, an angered fist that sent his head whirling in whiplash.

Grabbing his bleeding nose with one hand, he raised his other in a gesture of surrender and implored, "Marcus, I was—"

"Leading us to our deaths for a healthy tip? Get out."

With one quick glance at the pooled blood along the floor, the traitorous fool apparently did not need to be told twice; he ran back out of the doors with threats licking his heels.

Marcus nursed his fist, and then turned his face down to his father's. "There has been enough death tonight… living with himself will be enough punishment."

I agreed, for my punishment had lived beneath my skin from the moment I first took a life. Death was always too kind a reprieve for murderers.

….

Delirious from morphine, Christine was barely a doll, only able to shuffle along on her numbed leg and mumble at intervals as we made our way to the port that next morning. Mist rolled across the sea in the distance and settled atop our group like veils of silence. She didn't even know she was walking beside me. I'm not sure she would take kind to it if she were aware, for the memories last night must have uprooted… the pureness of my rescue could crumble and leave in its stead the monster I had tried to bury.

Christine held my bruised arm with a viselike grip, but I only cringed from her words. Vivienne walked like a slouching soldier beside my leg, her fingers bunched in the fabric of my pants. Christine had yet to notice the child at all.

"Raoul, is the water terribly cold?"

The _childhood sweetheart_ lifted his head quickly and met my glare before attempting to summon up an appropriate response. "Yes, freezing."

"Father wouldn't like this… _Angel_?" Her voice became frantic, and her glazed eyes sought mine, thin fingers tightening.

Each step I took shot knives up my limbs, the pain medication only barely making them useful appendages, but Christine, leaning her head of curls unwittingly against my battered chest, made my breath swim haphazardly for reasons other than pain.

Yet she was practically hallucinating; I chastised my swelling hope. Perhaps in this moment I was the angel with kind eyes, a perfect face, untainted wings that sprawled out from a scarless back…

I looked to Nadir, but he only shook his head and whispered in a grave voice, "Trauma. The morphine isn't helping either… she's in sort of a dream state. Just keep her pacified."

Breathing deeply until I felt it down to my toes, and more acutely aware of the way my mask felt along my distorted features, I turned to Christine's ear and responded with an inherent echo of sadness, "I'm right here, Christine. I'll always be right here."

That answer seemed to please her, for her grip loosened, and a small smile calmed her worried face.

At the docks, Selina, who had apparently decided to leave Coney Island, carefully took Christine's hand with a nod, and the two were swallowed in the ghostly fog as they entered the steamship. The mist rose up to press my skin where her hand no longer was.

The Comte eagerly pulled the vacant Comtess along next, avoiding the scattered popcorn on the ground.

Adjusting the leather gloves over my bound fingers, I sought out Marcus among the swaying attractions of Coney Island. With Vivienne cradled tightly against my leg, swan mask clutched in her sleepy fingers, dread clawed its way up my throat; I knew the answer would not be any different.

Fitting into the confines of the night prior, Monsieur and Madame Beaumont had never returned to retrieve their daughter. Emma had tried to bring Vivienne back to the hospital when the hours stretched too far for a five-year old, but the room was simply empty. The police had reported a mugging of a young couple—

They say that it's easy for a carriage to wander into the desolate areas of Manhattan when one doesn't know any better.

Marcus and Emma grew and sharpened into distinct shapes as they made their way with heads lowered.

The poverty of the city, children ripping at one meager piece of bread, the glowing eyes of the poor sitting against a brick wall, a scripted plan brewing behind his sooty face on how he could finally leave the dirt and see the sun…

_Killing for freedom…_

Marcus gave a sharp nod that Vivienne did not see. She played with the cuff of my pants and the laces of my boots, staring at the water with an oblivious look, though it was laced by a heaviness that I knew she couldn't place; her soul felt that her parents were gone.

_Marie Beaumont kissing my cheek with her eyes shining in gratitude…_

_Her husband shaking my murdering hand with a sincere smile…_

_An ill child as tiny as a doll, who, after growing, will begin to forget her mother's laugh and her father's voice…_

I felt such a loss keenly, because I had never heard my mother laugh, nor did I ever know my father.

The sadistic world had snatched away a piece of goodness by taking away Vivienne's parents, and I looked down at her small smile with a throat that closed tightly behind my own forced one.

Nodding back to Marcus, I gestured for Raoul to carry Vivienne on deck.

Marcus came close once Vivienne was out of earshot and confided, "The mother is alive but in critical condition. I had them transport her onto the boat's infirmary. I would not tell the girl until we know for sure whether Mrs. Beaumont will live or die."

Vivienne looked around with the curious eyes of make-believe, and my heavy heart weighted my already limping steps as we all left our last footprints on Coney Island's grounds.

….

"They will be back," Vivienne stated with conviction in her bell voice, picking at the blanket that pushed her against the pillow.

Nadir stopped situating his medical tools along the windowsill, and the cabin hushed to silence.

Completely at loss with the fragile mind of a child in my palms, a word away from shattering her world… I thought of Christine, crying by the pools of wax in the chapel, and how she would always ask her Angel where her father had gone. I shuddered knowing she was on the ship and I wasn't beside her, my fingers stretching in pain at my sides as if to reach for her, but I knew I couldn't leave Vivienne. I would face the frightening presence of Christine later.

No pretenses. No lies.

"I am afraid that that isn't up to us…" my voice trailed off as I gauged her reaction, hating the fact that _I_ had to make her understand that her father was gone, and possibly her mother. I, who had never known such a familial term or its indications.

A freak event, and her life was forever altered.

Her green eyes did not water, nor did her voice waver as she asked, "Did I do it?"

"No," I quickly bid, gently placing my bandaged hand over hers. "You did not."

"I turned six today," she whispered into the pillow as she turned her face into its cushion, green eyes blurring out of sight by the halfway descent of pale lids.

The pain in my body collecting and shooting right into my heart, I did the only thing I knew I could.

The _Dies Irae _spread smoothly from my lips and wound around her tiny form like warm silk, the words calming the taut muscles she had been hiding, relaxing the purse of her pensive lips.

With a sparkling tear collecting in her eye, wise beyond her years, Vivienne put her finger against my singing lips, and then slowly dropping both her arm and her lashes, that tiny speck of unplaced sadness finally travelled down her cheek and along her soft jaw.

_…__._

A muffled swear crawled to the tip of my lips, only halting for the sleeping child nestled feet away. The eye of the needle glinted white as Nadir painfully pulled it through my skin.

Scars that would eventually raise in white lines… the damning handprint of the gypsies to ensure I would never forget their art.

"I hear your death threats, my friend," Nadir grinned halfheartedly. "Let them out."

That tortuous needle pointed downward again, poised for my skin, and I bit my tongue bracing myself. With metallic coloring my taste buds, Nadir slipped his fingers beneath the lid of Pandora's Box.

"I'm sure Christine will make the pain worthwhile later," he raised the arch of innuendo along one brow.

"I don't plan on going near her," I ground through my teeth, convicted on a plan I had only half thought out.

Thread was snipped and alcohol morphed into millions of knives as it dragged over my open wounds.

"You just informed me that she told an entire room she was married to you."

"She had to." I stated, as if reading from a script I had written, "If she had said Raoul, my enemies would have raised their guns to fulfill Nadya's perverse quest and rid themselves of the obstacle. They already meant to kill me."

"Or," Nadir countered as he checked my bruised ribs for broken bones, "she wanted to say it because she loves you." And I felt the echo of the rod knocking into their stubborn dips over and over, hearing the crack of metal on bone. I _felt _no larger than the little boy with the mangled face, learning that no one could love him.

_Love, _Nadir believed, and yet I had never heard those words on her lips save for when I was under the blanketing pretense of Angel.

I had vaguely felt love without knowledge of its indicators, knew deep beneath the surface that she had always pushed it away, but stating to myself that she loved me was like crawling to the precipice of a cliff overlooking the life I wished I had, hundreds of dizzying feet below. _Love, _but there were too many reasons why I did not deserve the facets of _any_ of those letters.

Nadir looked up from his work, but only to focus on my mask in that tentative manner he'd reserved for it since Persia, and I knew what he was going to do next.

"Don't."

"Would you rather an infection?"

_I have already infected a pure white heart with the blackness of mine. _

Far too fatigued to even struggle, I merely closed my eyes and let his grip remove the barrier that separated me from mankind.

With the hiss of breath revealing his shock, I cringed and instinctively turned to my right so that my left side dominated his line of view.

"I'm used to your face, my friend." He slowly turned my stubborn chin back to examine the damage. "My reaction was to the job those gypsies did to it."

I ignored his words. "_Used _to my _face?_ Such a feat seems impossible."

Nadir used a cloth soaked in alcohol to clean the wounds there, and I formed my jaw into steel seeing as my hands were too damned fragile to grip anything. "And yet Christine kissed you without your mask. Why do you denounce everything, Erik? You push happiness away once it is finally presented to you."

"A kiss is blind," I pushed through my closed teeth.

"But a touch isn't. You said that she held your scars."

"Curiosity, subconscious manipulation. She knew that no one had before."

"Then she came back to your underground home that very night!"

"I had twisted her between my fingers trying to take her love. She was confused. Christine came to inquire and make sure her fallen angel wasn't entirely blackened, make sure my image wasn't something that would only haunt her."

_Her innocent pensiveness as she listened on my bed, the slight touches that she granted me with wide eyes and aching fingers... _ An enigma, more so than I. Yet didn't I know her heart? Or was it still sequestered in fragile seams…

With an exasperated sigh Nadir countered, "When you saw her on that ship? Her bleeding heart in her eyes, as you put it? She drank in your presence!" The way he dramatized my words from that night infuriated my already vulnerable anger, and I glared daggers in attempt to break the gentleness in both rings of green.

Annoyed that these answers weren't obvious, I knit my brows together and justified, "I was the one to make her heart bleed! She was being taken from her home by brutish demons; she would have reacted to _Carlotta's_ presence in that manner!"

I spoke the words, condemning hope, and yet I remembered her face clearly against the night sky. I knew her heart had reached for mine, her eyes pleading in a script that denoted not only a desire to be saved… I knew there was more, but I would not acknowledge the possibility. My fingers were broken for the deeds they had committed… how could I grasp at the straws she presented?

She had almost _died _from me more times than I could count.

"She kissed you just last night, did—"

"Christine thought her angel had died. She loves the angel, loathes the opera ghost, yet me? The man? I'm not sure she understands her admissions through touch, or the heart she beholds in her eyes. She is a woman, yet still very much a child." Then, almost to myself, "I can't_ hope_ for something more… I—"

"I love her, Daroga," I no longer felt pain, for I had sunk between the lower levels of my mind, swaddled in those velvet waves that pull your head down to unwittingly drown.

"And she loves you." Nadir hesitated, and then put down his tools on the table. "At first I didn't believe it, seeing her with the Vicomte…" He gauged my reaction before continuing, though his image was only blurred as I let other pictures run through my mind, "She seemed happy with him. Yet only after I saw her with you did I notice the difference. An empty shell being filled with passion and light. I'd know love anywhere, and she does not love the Vicomte."

"And the love she seeks is full of poison," I sneered. Merely my childhood took her in its snatches and almost stole her away for good; the Angel of Music had killed her innocence and quixotic notions; the Opera Ghost had added her heart to his list of murders… I had only ever caused her pain. And as much as I hated him for it, with a hate so black that it had driven me to take lives, I knew that the Vicomte could give her joy.

I had let her go for good reason. The most selfless I had ever been in my entire life, for I had acted with only her happiness in mind.

What kind of monster would I be to take that back? –The kind I had fought so hard to quell. Just as she had learned how to love an unlovable man, she would one day love Raoul. They would have unmarred children, circles of friends, a life beneath the crisp light of the sun…

At the admissions in my mind, a piece of my soul peeled and shattered, and a large weight pressed atop my heart.

**Christine**

**.**

**.**

Fingers of light tickled my closed eyelids, and a dull pain in my leg forced their heavy shades open.

Water sloshing, slight rocking, air scented with salt… Reality flooded in with colors of blue and white, and a Vicomte materialized in my line of sight, reading in a chair beside my bed. Before he could realize I was awake, I stared at him. My gaze fell to the book, and I simply just watched, wondering what he could be so invested in, his eyes practically boring holes through the aged paper. A minute passed by, and then two, and the page did not turn. A page only hosting the name of the novel; he wasn't reading at all...

Carefully, I moved my arms so that the sheets of the bed slipped together, whipping his attention to my lucidity. Through a feigned yawn I asked the first question to stumble into my muddled mind, "How'd I get on the boat unconscious?"

"You woke up long enough to walk aboard, though you were pretty gone on morphine," Raoul gave a slight chuckle that mirrored a distant memory exactly, the waves in the background inducing the past further, and only the deeper tone, empty from recent events, of his voice differentiated him from the little boy with sunburned cheeks.

Fond memories gone, I considered his words. Waking up meant sleeping, and sleeping meant a lapse in time… a time of grotesque scenes that now came back in flurries. Panic seized my limbs, and I checked the stitches along my legs, examining Erik's blood beneath my fingernails.

"Where's—"

"Erik?" Raoul was quick to supply. "Nadir is tending to him in one of the cabins down the hall."

At what must have been my dubious look, he continued with eyes that probed into mine for answers he didn't know the questions to, "He's the Opera Ghost, Christine. Erik will live."

_Ghosts can't perish._

Images of the aged aristocrats colored in the haunts of the past returned in a starburst behind my eyes. "…Your parents?"

Raoul glared at the unread book in his hand, closed it, clapped it onto the table, and then stood up from his seat. Not facing me, he bid through a glass pane, "In the saloon gambling and drinking like they weren't just a part of our ordeal from last night. Well… my mother isn't. Last I saw she was just staring at these boundless waves. Hasn't spoken a word."

The smooth waistcoat, even cufflinks, polished shoes… the methodic rubbing of his thumb across the tops of his white, fisted knuckles, an anxious habit I remembered very well from our time as children together, spoke words where stoic appearance could not.

"And you?"

"Me?" He turned his head slightly in time to the metronome ticking of the clock, and I ducked my head, knowing the questions he held in that one word.

"Yes, you, Raoul. Are you all right?"

He paused for a long while, composure a tenuous job against his features.

"It's only minor compared to what others received." His hand went to his neck, though there were only whispers of the mark that used to be there. "They did not need me there. I was more of an afterthought…"

Trailing voice preluding the fleeting wince in his eyes— I shattered the dodged intentions and quickly spoke in a breath, "Raoul, I'm sorry... I—"

"I know that you don't love me in a way that is enough, that_ I_ am not enough." His voice was vacant, and my response began to collect in each corner of my eyes.

I opened my mouth… to do what? To denounce his claims? To lie, protect the hazy glass of our relationship, and fetter my soul?

"No, don't." He held up a hand.

I didn't want to.

Yet what lay in store after severing Raoul from my life, who never gave up trying to pick up the pieces of my heart that Erik would break in those musician fingers. Even in a noose held mercilessly by the man I had always belonged to, he had still sacrificed what he thought he must to earn me the freedom he thought I longed for.

It would be so easy to love Raoul, to hold onto his sweet memory and forge new ones if I could only silence the clawing provided by any distance from _one_ shadow.

Loving Erik was the hardest endeavor I had ever encountered, the thinnest tightrope I had ever walked… and I knew because I had endured its exhausting trials from the moment I knew him to be corporeal. Tangible. A man.

Yet the future frightened me.

Feeling Raoul slip through my fingers, I grabbed the sheets and yanked them towards my stomach in a knowingly futile attempt to counter against the unsavory situation, to settle the times of ease back onto this nightmarish scape and soften the harsh colors.

"Raoul…"

"Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing," He recited, crossed to my side in two strides, placed a reverent kiss to the backs of my frozen knuckles, close but not touching the ring, and then walked out of the door.

The lack of buzz, the mere skin-to-skin warmth that his lips brought to my fingers banished any lingering reservations on the conviction of my heart. There was supposed to be more… Why couldn't it be him?

I let the covers to the bed swallow my fingers, and then I buried myself in an expanse of white, breathing heavily to steady the loss of a friend.

….

My entire thigh ached each time I stepped on it, but, determined, I made my way down the cabin hall in the grey wash of morning, and tried to find the room without knowledge of its number.

The first door I knocked on was opened by a woman with long ebony hair, bottle green eyes…

"Selina!" My gasp was swallowed by the name. Fogged, but definitely a memory, I remembered her taking me onto the steamship, but I had not known that she would leave America!

She smile and beckoned me into her cabin, and not for the first time, I acknowledged how graceful her movements were. Meg would have called her a dancer. _Meg… _anticipation welled in my stomach. _Home. _

"What made you decide to leave Coney Island?" I inquired, refusing her offer of a seat for both anxiety to see Erik and fear it would strain my stitches.

"I think you know the answer," she gave a light laugh. "They're my family, but I need a break. Maybe one day I'll return… I don't know where my plans lead me, honestly." Selina admitted.

"Well, you are always welcome with me in France." After a slight pause I sincerely exhaled my gratitude, "Thank you." She understood every implication from the two meager words without elaboration, but I did so anyways because she deserved it. "You saved my life… I am fully indebted to you."

"And you saved mine," she quipped back. "I'm not so certain your friends would have saved_ me_ if you hadn't jumped in front. Consider the debt paid in full."

She cupped my cheek and then gestured to the door, "Cabin A32."

A blush warming my cheeks, I thanked her again and then whisked out of the door regardless of my wound.

My adrenaline slowed as I reached the mahogany frame with its gold embossed 'A32', and I paused with an uncertain fist poised to knock. What would I say? Do? Feel?

Letting my mind clear of my doubts and deciding to just let instinct take over for once, I knocked twice and then waited with nerves singing a symphony so loud that I had to grip my stomach.

Slowly the door opened, and I opened my lips to issue some rush of a statement, but then any consonants and vowels halted.

"Nadir," I acknowledged with vague default; I peered around his shoulder, but the room appeared empty.

"Come in, Mademoiselle Daae." His green eyes sparkled as I brushed by into the light-filtered cabin.

Pleasantries came in a rush, and I felt ashamed to have forgotten them. "Excuse my manners, Monsieur Kahn. How are you this morning?"

"Better than you, I presume," Nadir responded, closing the door. I trusted him, but the resounding click brought too many memories, trapped, _caged… _and then my thoughts immediately went to Erik, as always. Calming the shudder down my back, I turned and plastered on a smile.

"How is your leg feeling? Any burning? And I told you that you could simply call me Nadir! I think propriety is not an issue after what brought us together…" Death, blades, blood…

I gave a halfhearted smile at his words and then shook my head, "No, it is only sore. Thank you for all that you've done, Mons— Nadir. Truly, we would not be alive if you had not shown." Everyone would be alive if not for the potency of love, loss, and what those factors do once they've simmered beneath a lid for years…

The Persian warmly tilted his head in a nod before letting his eyes grow pensive, "I believe last night was a game of chance and timing. If not for many small happenings, words, the conscience, the smallest change, there might be different people cold, and others with a beating heart."

We shared a dark look, laden with weight, and then I turned to survey the cabin around me.

The room was exactly the same as mine, save for… well, save for the two little green eyes, sleepy as can be, staring at me from the lump on the bed! When we made eye contact, the little girl quickly hid back further in the pillows, and I felt a genuine breath of a laugh brighten my somber gaze to curiosity.

Thankful for a distraction, I inquired, "And who might this be?"

Nadir looked around until his gaze fell on the golden-haired girl, and then his smile lowered in poignancy. "This would be Vivienne Beaumont, a dear acquaintance of Erik's."

The child, Vivienne, sat up until her curls fell to her waist, and questioned in a tiny voice that cracked in what sounded like fear, "Where did he go?"

Panic oddly seizing her eyes, her breaths became labored as she asked further, "Is he gone, too?"

Gone? We were on a ship!

"He is perfectly fine, Vivienne, do not worry." Meeting my gaze, Nadir beckoned me closer to him and then whispered in my ear, "Her father was murdered in a city mugging yesterday and her mother is in the infirmary aboard. We are waiting to hear anything. She… does not really understand what that means, nor have we told her the details. Erik plans on caring for the girl until the mother is well—if she is well."

My heart yanked in tandem with welling in pleasant surprise. No one should suffer the death of their parents, especially at an age so impressionable, where memories of little details begin to leave with the seasons… but just as Erik was there for me, it seemed he planned on filling Vivienne's world with more than grief. It takes a special heart to do that, and not one sewn in a monster.

"Who are you?" That little voice turned me from my musing past, and I met my sad eyes with her own inquisitive ones, smiling against weighted cheeks.

"My name is Christine Daae," I stated, watching her eyes squint and examine me with such clinical seriousness that I again almost laughed in spite of myself.

Something seemed to dawn on her, for her eyes went wide and her miniature hand yanked my arm so that I knelt down and faced her.

Gravely, she whispered, "You are very important."

Before I could question, she continued, "You are his love! And you must love him back so that he can take his mask off."

Startled by this strange outburst, I looked to Nadir. He shook his head and admitted, "I believe Erik was telling stories again, he—"

"Two men were fighting for the love of a princess, and the side he was on lost! But the witch friend of the princess did not want fighting in the kingdom. The witch friend cast a curse on those who fought so that they had to wear masks that went on top of the kingdoms seal. Those were on their faces," she pointed to her right cheek for emphasis. "Erik can't go back into the kingdom until he finds his love to break the curse!"

Vivienne leaned closer until her curls fell across my darker ones and asked with deadpan eyes, "Will you help him? You must." She paused and then started again, "He is very sad, and he came a long way to find you. And it is my birthday."

Quietly, with a hint of desperation, she implored, "Will you love him?"

Staring into her eyes and reading their scripted hardships, I suddenly felt very fond for the little girl, as if her tiny fingers had wound around my heart strings and tugged with an intangible and immediate bond. Her golden lashes, the baby softness of her skin, rosy cheeks, and stubborn set of her chin. Knowing what life brought for an orphan, I knew I couldn't let any of its knives touch her gentle heart if that was her fate.

"Yes," I smiled despite my harbored reservations, my head clearing its darkness in her immediate elation, "I will." I placed my hand on top of hers. "And happy birthday, Vivienne,"

For it was so simple to just let impulse pull words from my lips for once. To just say them without worry of the consequences tied.

"Now Miss Daae," Nadir pulled my attention from the child and asked, "you do know how hard it is to love Erik?" He paused. "Well, actually it's strangely easy to let that nuisance worm his way into your heart, but… I think you understand that it's difficult for him to accept that fact, more so than for others."

I frowned, "He never believed that he could have my love, so he thought he must take it. That was why I became so confused! He even sent me away that night because he thought me false… It scares me, Nadir, that he may never believe me. That he may forget the good and revert to his manipulating."

Not realizing that the topic could still pull me so far beneath its painting, mirroring each of my emotions as if they were etched on tin and pressed into my soul, I looked to make sure I hadn't frightened Vivienne with my somber words.

Seeing the girl's features calming in sleep's gentle lull, I brushed the curls from her face, and stood ready to face anything Nadir could give me. I needed guidance! I knew nothing! Being Erik's friend, there was a chance he could actually show me the way through the black maze I traversed empty-handed.

Knowledge edging his irises, he intoned, "That's where you're wrong." Furrowing my brow, I stepped closer to listen. "He let you go because he loved you, and he thought that his love would ruin you. He sacrificed his happiness for what he believed to be your own."

Shaking my head, I proclaimed, "But that isn't fair! Why does he get to make my choices for me? None of us would be in this mess if he wasn't so bloody stubborn!"

"You're beginning to even sound like him, mademoiselle."

I brought my fingers to my lips in shock of my unladylike language, and Nadir chuckled again before any remnants of mirth left his voice. "He knows, and that's why he thinks you're better off without him. Erik blames this entire ordeal on each one of his actions beginning from when he was almost as little as her," He brought a finger in the direction of the sleeping girl.

"I didn't mean that. I don't think this is anyone's fault," I began pacing the carpet, muttering, "Yet he doesn't think that."

"He wants you to marry the Vicomte."

My steps scuffed to a stop, and I looked with wide eyes. "What?"

I gripped my head and rubbed my palms to my cheeks in exasperation. "Again! He does not even ask me what I desire."

Nadir, grinning like he knew a secret, asked, "And you're certain that it is him?"

I feared such a statement because I had never spoken the words when they were true. With Raoul it was automatic, statements of endearment and love that I never really meant. To mean them, sealing my fate with a shadow I could not rid my heart of, I hesitated for only a moment. "It's him." I pushed my fists at my sides, "God help me, it has always been him!"

With the muted echo of an organ reaching through the levels of the steamship, I knew very well my next destination.

….

The hellfire on my heels simmered only at the sight that met my eager gaze. Fury tumbled into curiosity, and loud movements hushed into timidity.

The music room glowed with random oil lamps, tomes of music glinting gild, two green velvet couches, a large pipe organ, and a thick rug practically asking my feet to break free of their slippers and glide over the tickling fibers… yet, that was unladylike, so I refrained.

But what caused my uncertainty… the strong shoulders, wittingly keeping up their own painful façade, holding a bowed head; bandaged fingers lingered over one key, caressing and quaking. The curve of an elbow against the sleeve of a waistcoat, its fabric bunching to hide the untouched muscles and contours… Utter dejection in his eyes as he turned them down to his fingers.

A piece of my heart seemed to break off and scatter, for I knew his loss as if it were my own. Hindering music, no matter how temporary… it was always his only respite. Music was the shape of his lips, in the legato grace of his steps, in each verdigris eye, the very breaths he took and expelled. He _was _music, and I felt the notion tug my body forward until his head turned at my step.

"Christine," he bid, formal and stoic, yet I watched a tremble shake his bottom lip and force him to bite on its inside in a way I found very endearing despite the circumstances.

I immediately came to sit next to him on the glossy bench, the bustling passengers passing by a mere afterthought.

He twisted to face me, and I winced with him, seeing such pain etched even on the hidden features behind a cold mask, as if there were no barrier at all.

Tears began to slowly stream in a silent melody as I pictured his broken body from the night prior; evening clothes, gloves, and a mask only hid what was physical. Those _eyes_…

"Are you in pain?" he asked, his beautiful eyes revealing such tender worry before the cool armor could rise right back up. But the warmth in his gaze calmed me, assured me that the man he was the night of _Don Juan_ was only a role. It was not _who _he was.

Such a caring question, and yet, everything forgotten save for the blinding white of hurt, I snapped.

Standing up, I glared at him and yelled with fisted fingers in my skirts, "Yes!"

Not even giving his brow a chance to knit to the center, I continued, "Did you mean to just do away with me? Have your friend give me_ your_ plan of marriage between Raoul and I while you maybe leave a letter and then disappear?"

My bravado almost faltered as I watched him struggle to stand, though I was determined to salvage the fire. It felt so good to just empty my words for once!

"You deserve better than I…"

"And you determine who that might be?"

"You deserve everything that I can't give you! Someone who isn't a disfigured carcass of a man, a murderer who feels no remorse! The Devil's Child," He yelled back, velvet tones wrapping me in a surrounding ambush. Erik raised his hands to grip my forearms, but at the pain the movement gave, he suddenly realized his actions and abashedly lowered them onto his lap with a look that said he had only proven his failing aptitude for my love even further. Fear of his temper drove me to take a step back, but my heart knew his pain and kept me rooted in a way I had shied from those months ago. He stared at his hands as if their violent tendencies were completely out of his realm of control, and then back up at me with a fear that rivaled my own fleeting experience with that emotion.

Softening my voice, I inquired straight from my bleeding heart of hearts, "Music? Passion? More love than I have ever known?"

Torment in eyes that saw all, and yet… he was so blind! "You call yourselves those inflicting names because they're so easy to be. The Opera Ghost was such a simple role to fall into. Without it, you felt weak, and you could not deal with that. You buried your true self because you were afraid of showing your heart and having it shattered!"

"So quick in your convictions, Christine? You were afraid of that heart. You did not want to see it!" With ripped wounds bared, he stood up and gave me my first clear look of that heart in too long, emotion swimming in pools of blue, daring me to condemn him. But I was no longer the meek lamb.

"I was a child then," I implored, running my fingertip over his visible eyelid when it fluttered closed.

"My love is a sin." His bandaged hand gripped the side of the organ, and he leaned over me until he towered at his full height, stealing my breath in shadow, intoxicating my senses in his smell. There seemed to never be a time too dire for sensations to wrack my body in his presence. Hadn't my palms sweated and stomach thrummed even as he yanked me down to the bowels of the opera house? "Christine…" His eyes drank me in in a visceral touch that spread waves down to my toes. "You were abducted because of me—almost murdered because of my actions. Do you think I could have ever lived with myself, knowing I had extinguished my only light in this godforsaken world of mine?"

Bolder, standing on my doubts like Mother Mary upon the serpent, I stated, "People died last night. Yet Fate brought us here. If not for such horrifying circumstances, I would never have realized…"

"What?" Erik's voice grew faintly eager, though laden with the same weight of a dream already dead. "What did you realize?"

Taking my fingers to free the binds of my heart, I implored as if the statement was as simple as it was short, "That I love you!"

At his unchanged expression, an expression that seemed to even darken at my words, a hollow pit spread in my stomach and I observed, "But you don't believe me. You think you manipulated my heart, and you did." His response angered me, made me feel as if I spoke to a wall. But didn't I know why he kept those walls in place? I had destroyed his heart as much as he had destroyed mine.

"So then how must I believe you?" He stepped closer and I had the sudden notion that my future had absorbed into his body and come closer as well. I didn't fear it with his presence to assuage the cracks to the edges of my fairytale ending.

"You cannot force an unwilling heart to beat. And mine beats in tune to yours, no matter what I used to tell myself." The words came from some place other than my mind, and I realized that I had thought them before. _The kiss in his lair when the sound of our hearts synchronized, when I could feel each drum beat pound as quickly as my own…_

Raoul's life thrummed always a step off from mine, a discordant duet that left both treble and bass ultimately unhappy and stale. While Erik… he was the notes that made my ending cadence soar, the metronome heart that mine matched to beat as dutiful as in our lessons. No, I hadn't asked it to… but it leapt just the same.

Watching lips again begin to shake, I gently wound my arms around his neck without my mind's consent, and aligned our bodies until a whisper, so charged that a shock of sensation abruptly clamored in my body, was left between us. Erik opened his mouth to speak, eyes wide and dark, but I stole his words and placed my lips there instead.

Immediately, ice poured down my spine, and I shivered as his hips backed mine slowly against the wall in his need to be closer. He consumed me, and I knew I wanted exactly that. Hands too broken to hold any part of me at all, it was both madness and even more pleasurable, each move of my lips and roll of my body held by the strength of him doing the same.

There's something to say for how quickly Erik learns; his lips were already far more skilled than mine, and he had only kissed twice in his life until that moment.

I opened my eyes to watch his, closed tightly, such a smooth look of bliss on his visible brow. A feeling of utter elation washed over me keen that it broke through all of the grime and filth my abduction had infused into my pores and replaced it with pure sensation. _This _was right. It had been right all along. And I wanted to see its scripted end on more than just half of a visage.

"Erik," I mumbled against his lips, and he moaned in reply. My knees nearly gave out at the attack of that timbre vibrating in my mouth. "I want to see your face."

He went rigid in my hold, and I felt his heart begin to race faster than mine against my chest, syncopating yet still somehow in harmony. The spell was broken as soon as it had begun, and I immediately regretted my words. His face no longer repulsed me, and yet I knew he would use it as the barrier again. He always thought it was the problem, that impenetrable barrier separating him from the love that he sought.

Crystalline tears sheened over his pained eyes, and he stepped away in what appeared to be a retreat. His full weight against the organ, he whispered, "you make me forget."

You make me forget that I am unworthy to even share your air. Please…" he began to limp to the exit, and I only stared, frozen like one of the gold statues at the Populaire. "Don't touch me."

_Touch me, trust me. _

As if I had tortured him far worse than the gypsies, Erik stared brokenly at my form, and then left the room.

Then I realized that I had, bruising his heart in my attempts to understand mine.

_Savor each sensation. _

Like a defeated flower, I crumpled to the floor and placed my face on top of my knees, letting frustrated tears trickle into the fabric of my dress and soak through.

Yet cold tears eventually turned to equally adamant conviction, and I wiped the backs of my knuckles across my slippery cheeks, pushed my feet to a standing position, and brushed myself off quite literally.

Running my wet fingers against the keys once, I lifted my chin and left to chase a phantom.

First I went to my cabin, for I wished to at least collect myself before seeking Erik out, the red-faced fright that was my frazzled, tear-stained face too unbecoming for my liking. It must be shallow to care about appearances, but I wished to _be_ that unreachable image Erik spun of me in his mind, to reach each expectation of perfection.

My skirts swished against my knees in my hurried pace, rubbing against my stitches; I didn't care.

Was he with Vivienne? The thought alone warmed my heart, and the corners of my lips pulled down into a weighted frown. He _was_ a _good man_, and yet he wouldn't even let himself see it. How had I not let _myself_ see it until too late?

_Because I'm a coward_, my thoughts taunted.

My feet were soundless spectres on the carpet, the hallway just as tunneled and dim as my thoughts, the flickering sconces granting a sense of surrealism. A melody left my lips softly, and I closed my eyes, letting the sound bring me back to the time when angels hid behind mirrors, and vicomtes hid behind their noble title.

_You do know how hard it is to love Erik? _

So lost in my thoughts, I nearly barreled right into Raoul! He grasped my shoulders to prevent it, and I looked guiltily into his eyes, though the guilt spawned from memories too. Standing on the tips of my toes to look over his shoulder, I could tell he had just come from my room. An arched brow rose above my inquiring features.

Seeing my line of stare, Raoul hastily replied, "I had left my coat in your room," then almost sheepish, "here is the key." He placed it in my palm, and I was suddenly overcome by déjà vu when Erik had placed the ring in mine that night so long ago. Feeling the significance of the key, I leaned up and placed a goodbye kiss on Raoul's perfect cheek, feeling the sculpted and noble curves against my lips.

And yet I still wished for marred and deformed, for the soul and passion beneath the visage were far more beautiful and aligned with mine than the most handsome face could ever possess.

Smiling sadly, Raoul caressed mine, and then continued on to the staircase with what appeared to be more effort than he cared to show.

The door opened with a click, and I stepped into its shadows, quickly lighting candles to banish them all. Yet one remained.

Hunched over by the window, blue eyes like the roots of flames…

"Erik! What are you—"

"I see you've accepted my words."

Dread wound my limbs, and I froze. Damn his conclusions!

"It-it was a goodbye kiss." I stuttered, the sheer power exuberating even out of a bruised body making me guilty for no reason at all. Though the absolute desperation overshadowed my fear, and I stated with power asserting each syllable, "You know I do not love him."

"You could." He stated matter-of-factly, stepped away, and turned to stare at the melting wax.

"Yes, but it would be a lie. Never enough." When Erik wouldn't look at me, I suddenly cried my soul's suffering, "Tell me what to do! Tell me what I can say to make you believe that _you _are the _only _one that I want!"

Without a hint of thought, Erik demanded, "Spend a week on your own, staying with the Giry's or de Chagny's," I watched a cringe tighten his features at the latter. "If at the end of it you still believe that you love _me_, that you no longer see a monster that you are chained to, then I will welcome you home with open arms."

_Home._

Shivering at his cold aloofness, I stepped forward if only to warm his icy countenance and replied, "I never saw a monster. The phantom was a monster, and yet you are not him. You hid behind the power like another mask." I took a step closer and implored with passion, "Don't make me do this, Erik. I don't need a week to know what I want! I've known what it was, _who _it was, the moment you came to me a man. I just..." I paused awkwardly, "took a little long to see it."

A hollow laugh met my reddening cheeks.

Erik brought one wrapped hand to my throat, though not in a threatening manner. No, his fingertips gently trailed until they whispered against my collarbones, the curve of my shoulders, raising the fine hairs on my arms in gooseflesh. …And I heard the words that he wished to say, the admission of his own love in those gentle fingers.

I ran my hand up his chest in response to this mute conversation, not minding the end of the audible one, stopping just beneath the warmth of his jaw. Feeling him tremble… that was my power. And I could not shatter it. Erik was _mine, _and nothing would change that.

He closed his eyes, but I ran my fingers over his mask, emboldened when he didn't flinch. Slowly, I peeled the useless leather off and revealed his grotesque features to my thirsty eyes. Eyes trained on me like hard marbles, daring me to show my disgust, I instead ran my fingertips along his ravaged cheek, following its odd dips. His deformed flesh inexplicably sent frissons down my arms, even their abstract construction tantalizing in a way only known through touch, and I pressed my cheek to his, feeling a gasp rush harshly against my ear.

The growl in his chest vibrated against my own, and I abruptly turned my face until his lips grabbed mine in a locking hold, languid, like a long legato line… and as the buzzing plummeted into my belly, I realized that I needed more. _This _was what I had feared at the Populaire, this soul-consuming fever that even just one look from Erik brings. Though now, after being apart for too long, unwinding the mysteries of my heart, I craved it.

Darkness and passion and the most pure kind of emotion, snippets from the past, feelings I could never quite place, considering them all to be fright… their memory snapped forward to the present until I quaked down to my toes, a siege of gooseflesh racing up my back each time his skin brushed mine, each time his lips pressed harder.

"Touch me," he commanded between breaths, and I smiled at his contradictions. _This _was Erik.

Guiding him to the wooden chest against the foot of the bed, I sat him down, each movement timid in my purity. My instincts seemed to know what they were doing, yet my mind fought to catch up; I had a vague understanding of where this might lead, an even vaguer knowledge regarding what the act entails, yet fear only prickled beneath my desire to feel.

His waistcoat was discarded first before I bunched his shirt in my fingers and tried to lift, but then I shook my head in my nervous mistake and began to fumble with the buttons down the front. His deliriously amused smirk faded once I began to push the thin material down his shoulders. The sight made my breath catch in horror, and I carefully slid it the rest of the way for fear of hurting him. Such a perfectly sculpted body riddled with scars, and now… a large gash just below his chest, random slices along his arms and torso, all stitched and cleaned. Yet each breath seemed to make their lines bloom just a little more with scarlet. And his musician fingers, broken, bandaged, refusing the world pieces of his manmade heaven.

"Can you love this? The scarred body that has always been yours?" His voice was barely above a breath, power cracking to reveal his true trepidation.

Closer, until his knees locked on either side of my hip, I bent down and brought my lips to his chest. So careful did they make contact with his flesh, as if wind would finally shatter his body and blow him away.

A gasp followed a tremor that shuddered down his body, and I smiled, my lips dragging along the raised scars but avoiding the new wounds.

"Christine," He pleaded, though he did not appear to know what it was that he was pleading for. Each touch of my lips was, in my own naïve way, healing. An apology. For taking off the mask, for leaving him, and for everything in between.

Up his neck, along his jaw, pushing against his lower lip while his upper moved over mine. I was falling, and did not want to find stable ground! If I was certain about anything, it was that I _needed _Erik. I always would, flaws and all. And it was love and not fear, pity, or lies that bound me to him.

Just as my fingers found his scars again, Erik abruptly pulled back, and I actually groaned like a petulant child.

He stood up, and I was momentarily distracted, a daze stealing my breath, by the way the candlelight illuminated the planes of his body. Putting the mask back into place, that stark white reminder of the darkness of the phantom, he whispered in my ear, "one week."

.

.

**No, I did not kill off Vivienne's father so that she could have a similar situation to Christine! You will see my reasoning… I feel bad for Christine. This poor girl must sooner go insane than have a normal life. She knows she loves Erik, and yet she knows that hard times will lay ahead. Again, the reason she had so many doubts even after she admitted her love to herself was because the whole showdown with Oscar reminded her of her own personal showdown with Erik in his lair. It brought up repressed memories, and she feared that he would always think that he had to take her love. **

**And bad Erik stopping the kissing both times! ****_And _****making her stay away for a week? That is willpower, my friend. (my love)**

**Where do you think it'll lead next? Is it going how you imagined it to go? Will Christine really stay away?**

**Have a phantastic night ;) **


	16. Chapter 16

**Thank you for reading, even when I'm a cruel author and make you wait so long. I promise my next stories will be largely written before I begin posting so that post time will be regular! Now, onto the show...**

**Raoul**

**.**

**.**

"Pass the salt, son," my father intoned, stretching his legs away from the table. My mother would not look at me yet, brown eyes glazed over in a despairing stare that even stirred the cream of her soup.

The overhead chandeliers swayed as gossip twisted around their crystals, the dim light of dusk barely touching the golden tones of the dining hall. A perfect world of wealth swaddled by a ship's walls, yet waves crashed fervently just beyond.

A clearing of a raspy throat brought my attention back to my company, and I passed the damned salt.

It bothered me that my father, the _mighty_ _Comte_, was acting so _normal_ throughout all of this, as if his best friend turned enemy wasn't just shot and his wife didn't cry on top of his body at the loss. Though, perhaps normal was what I needed, anything to keep me from feeling like the fool that I was.

My cheek stung from Christine's lips… the innocent notion, an apology—a kiss given to a brother. I knew she was sorry for ending things—that she was sorry for not being able to love me as I loved her. But, it stung.

Our wedding would have been in only two weeks.

Spending an entire year jumping through flaming hoops to save her, and yet she never wanted to be saved. All of the time spent battling my family members with knifing words and pleading arguments over my desire to marry a stage performer, each time I risked my _life_, every time I believed that her words of love meant something... Gone, and now I felt like a depressed schoolgirl. I should've known! That woman always went back to her angel no matter the murderer she knew him to be.

I wanted to hate him… I told myself that I did. Somewhere, deep within, I still held onto the appellation of 'monster.' Though this voyage had changed more than I had fathomed, an inexplicable sense of camaraderie—albeit lacking any warm feelings of brotherhood—forming from sharing the near-death experience. And watching him become tortured, watching him barely react from an armor borne of habit…

I wanted to hate him, but my compassion forbade me to. Given, I didn't want him with Christine; the mere thought of her baring his children made my fingers curl taut. Yet then I thought of Vivienne, Opera ghost persona shed, being cared for by a man I realized I knew nothing of. And I hated that even more, because I knew the monster I had tried to sequester Christine from had never existed.

It was only a mask.

After finishing another enraged recount on how him and my mother had been lured to Coney Island by a forged note appearing to be written in my hand as if it were the first time he was telling the story, my father stood up tall and strode with purpose to the marble bar counter.

Almost afraid to break the desolate glass bubble around my mother, I carefully took the paper from my jacket, clearing my throat just as gently.

She turned from her cogitations and faced me with a drawn on smile, gushing distractedly as if this was the first time seeing me since the night before, as if she had never wasted the day present only in body, "Raoul, dear, you can't imagine how utterly happy I am just to see you here and real and very much alive." At the last word, she looked down again as if searching the cut crystal of her glass to look for the next line in her script. "When you weren't there at the port…" Her expression turned grave as she seemed to finally grip reality, exclaiming, "I was so worried—my only son!"

Smoothing out the letter I had begun to write for Emma, I looked up into eyes that knew so much guilt that I had to turn away, instead focusing on the firelight glowing against the silverware atop cream linen.

"I've been a terrible mother."

After hesitating a breath, I assured, "Not to me."

At her quizzical expression, I handed over the paper and watched her gaze run over the name in black letters at the top. _My sister. _I felt no connection to her; we had never grown up together, never gotten into that mischief siblings thrived on. I had been raised in a house of lies with a mother whose heart had clearly always resided with a maddened impresario, with a secret sister a sea away… and I did not blame her. She sought to protect our family, to just live as a Comtess and have an uncomplicated life. Was that not what Christine wanted with me? Stability when life provided none.

"I love your father, Raoul," she spoke with eyes still frozen on parchment. "You must know that."

As a child I was too oblivious, too willing to blur the unsavory parts… yes, my mother had loved my father, but she suffocated as well, lived as a vacant heart. You can love two people, I had learned, but never in the same way. Instead of bringing up the point that hurt the most, I told her, "I will mail the letter when we arrive in Cherbourg."

She looked up at me as if she was a child, awaiting encouragement with wide eyes on what to do next.

This new side of my mother scared me, delivered too much of divergence from my normal gilded life. Slightly annoyed at her blatant weakness that she had kept hidden my entire time on this earth, I looked away from her childlike eyes and bid, "…Good night, mother."

Touching her shaking hand gently, I rose on heavy legs and headed off to my cabin, feeling profoundly alone as gaiety and laughter shook the walls of the boat in only echoes behind my footsteps.

**Christine**

**.**

**.**

A weighty exhaustion dripped like languid silk into the marrow of my bones while the waves lapped carefully against the ship's exterior, almost too afraid to startle the scene within.

Erik had yet to leave my room, fiddling with the latches to the windows, cringing all the while from physical pain though he tried to hide it, and pacing slowly as I watched him. Too tired to really care about propriety, I gathered a nightdress from the suitcase Selina had procured and scampered to the tiny washroom. Maybe it was silly, given his farewell, to think that Erik would still be there, illuminated by the light between shadow, blue eyes eager to seek my form when I returned to the dark room; but, I still had a girlish hope that foolishly tinged my cheeks. The feeling was still so foreign to me, yet I held onto its normalcy with aching fingers.

Tying the sash of my dressing gown, I came back out with a secret smile prompted by the movement in my peripheral. _He had not left_.

I relished in the hungry stare that met me as I looked up at my shadowed suitor, excited tingles chasing down my back as I _felt_ his gaze follow each edge of my curves like an able substitute for his slender hands.

With Erik, his voice had a tangible touch, his eyes grew their own fingers, and his actual skin begot frightening sensations all over mine; if all three were at work at once, the strength in my limbs never stood a tremoring chance. And I liked it that way, even if I feared it at the exact same time.

"Erik," I acknowledged him innocently. "Do you have still something that you wish to say?"

"What…? Do I—" Those eyes traveled slowly back up to mine, and he blinked hard. "Oh. No, I am just making sure that your room is secure."

"So that a mermaid doesn't come through the window and steal me away to his aquatic kingdom?"

A ghost of a smile tinged his brooding features. "Mermaids, Angels… You can never be too certain."

Smiling shyly I dared ask, "And what if I wanted an angel to steal into my room? It would certainly not be unwelcome…"

When Erik looked away so abruptly that you would have thought I had never spoken a word my coy bravado dropped, and I had the sudden notion of dropping on my knees and begging for his company. The world was too cruel and crumbling to deny such a small feat as healing with another person. Why couldn't he see that?

"Don't keep me away from your world!" I pleaded in one exasperated breath, actually completing the action and sliding to my knees before him, wishing so vehemently to hear him even curse me out if only to be graced by the sounds that left his lips.

The amount of shock in his suddenly vulnerable eyes was both cherished and saddening; I was reminded that the broken child within him had never left with age, for it had never had love to guide its dispositions of the world. He always assumed the worst would befall him until it bloomed into existence and stole just a little more hope.

…And I was just a little shocked myself to so easily be able to read him, as if the barriers between my understanding had been shifted to let air through even if for only a moment.

"Get up, Christine." I heard from a strained voice, though I would not look up to its source.

Defiant to all ends, I wrapped my shaking arms around his knees and buried my face into his thigh, feeling each muscle immediately stiffen to steel.

"Forgive me, forgive me," I muttered into the fabric of his trousers. He was still internally bleeding, and I had held the knife!

Slowly he knelt in symmetry to my pose, my head only lifting from his leg to allow his descent before digging back into his chest, my nose nuzzling the erratic beats of his heart.

A strangled sob that I felt in a constricted chest forced my face up, and I watched as two bandaged hands cradled my face in their fingertips. Emotion too heavy for only half of a face, I reached up and took that trivial piece of leather from his features, craving their abnormalities to reveal Erik, the man, and not the ghost who hid his heart.

Too stunned to turn away, to react at all now that the mask was already gone, Erik's sea blue eyes, with their vibrancy magnified by unshed tears, studied my features sadly, and with a voice to match admitted, "I used to tell myself that I hated you." He let his fingers graze mine, right over the ring.

Resonant voice almost soothing in words that stung, though to think that I had driven him to that point inspired self-loathing on my end—self-loathing that was mirrored in the furthered statement, "Yet I was the only one who ever needed to beg forgiveness. I _manipulated _you, knowingly… I killed, Christine, just because I could not have you. You were right to run, but now you run in the wrong direction."

Incited memories made me shudder, but my heart began to beat louder as if to snap me out of logic's sway and draw me closer to its match. With fingers that dug into shoulders, I gripped to ground the both of us.

"I was wrong," Erik whispered desolately, "I was always wrong. Can't you see that I'm trying to fix things? To do right by you?"

"Forcing me from you will only hurt me more, and that will be another sin upon your shoulders," I stated frankly. There were no more games or sugarcoating. Kisses didn't turn murderers into princes. They did not wipe broken souls clean of their transgressions, nor did they seal the cracks of a shattered heart.

I loved Erik, flaws and all. There was no fantasized future… only a guarantee that an omnipotent, consuming love would fuel its every passing day.

A large exhalation that I shared as my own passed through Erik's body, and he placed his face with sunken eye socket, half-formed nose, and mangled cheek into my tingling neck. Night had fallen like a blanket, and I held that shunned face with fingers curled in his hair closer until each breath blew across my throat, echoing its inherent loneliness and timidity.

And I had never been more completely enamored by his very existence.

Limbs creaking from their aching position, I was reminded of how entirely tired I was, my lethargic sight seemingly delayed as each shape fought to keep its edges.

"Stay with me," I whispered, delighting in the sound of a safely whirring ship as it banished memories of striped tents and smoking guns. Though we were literally putting that past behind, it would never leave, and I hoped that facing the past from the opera house head-on would be more successful in conjuring better memories to fit over the unbecoming ones.

Always trepidation, but not even a minute after I got under the silk covers did I hear shoes being shyly discarded, and then a tall weight made the mattress creak, clumsy with a wince to give away the state of his injuries. Tears slid unbidden along my cheeks at what he had suffered… but then flowed faster at how peaceful I felt as his scent wrapped my anticipating body, how _safe _and _right_, and I lifted the covers up to invite his presence beneath their barrier.

Shallow breaths made their own music as Erik shifted slowly, as if thinking that if he went too fast I would be frightened off like an abruptly approached deer and flee the room. Warmth bloomed in my chest, and I rolled onto my side where tears had cooled my pillow, and reveled in the moment. The journey had given me strength I had believed nonexistent, and I was profoundly grateful.

For if I had remained that frightened deer led by whichever hand seemed less demanding that day, I would never have been under a cocoon of pleasantly cool covers, fisting my fingers in the shirt above the torso of the man I had always been afraid to love, and listening to the breathing of a soul still shocked beyond all measure, yet hiding it… a soul who never believed it would know any semblance of peace.

And then I realized that I was happy that he had lied to me… that he had pretended to be my Angel of Music. For without that intrusion, I would've never known what it was like to truly affect a life. Strength… for God somehow knew that I would be ultimately strong enough to love Erik. I thanked him for giving me the courage, as I had said before kissing him that first time in an icy lake full of futile regret, to show him that he was _not _alone. He would forever have me, and, someday, doubts would be a humorous memory for the both of us.

"What are you thinking?" I couldn't keep the smile out of my voice, and I curled closer to ensure that I'd hear it in is.

A pause. "That this is much more enjoyable than sleeping near a snoring Persian who emits grating sounds akin to a dying horse." Another pause… "And that the broken state of my hands is stealing much more than music. Christine, I take it back." Erik turned and let intense eyes rake over my form in the dark. "Enjoyable?" he muttered more to himself. "_This _is torture."

The fact that he could make light of what he had endured by the gypsies astounded me in its strength, but instead of shattering the moment, I let a full laugh break from my lips and teased, "I really am very happy that I rate higher than your Daroga, but, Erik, do you feel this?"

He grazed his cool lips to my cheekbone before whispering with every echo of the scared little boy he tried to hide with bravery in his sure-footed actions, "I do. And I'm afraid to break it."

Leaving my own necessary brand to his jaw by my lips as a lethargic shiver ran down my spine at his nearness, I responded with the last flickering wisps of coherency before a dreamless sleep dragged me away to the tick of his metronome heart, "It hasn't broken yet, has it?"

**Erik**

**.**

**.**

Ribbons of red light tumbled with a deceiving harmlessness through the port window, turning everything they touched to a molten gold. My murky eyes took longer to adjust, retinas still yearning for the blackness that wouldn't sting… then a movement at my side made me jerk, and I stared with wide eyes at an angel's face with crescent lashes, supple lips, slightly knitted brow in sleep's dreamscape; felt an arm snaked around my stomach, a fist clenched atop my chest, curls winding and tickling whatever my flimsy shirt didn't cover, smooth legs pressed flushed to mine.

The bliss overwhelmed me, and I had to fight very hard to not let tears ruin my vision of the scene. This… never in a million years would I have believed.

The ship swayed, throwing its tendrils of morning light onto Christine, and I was suddenly frightened by the prospect that the heavenly gold gripping her hair was from the same red sky that I knew would produce a treacherous storm.

Red skies…

Angry at my ineptitude in staying away from Christine, at not being able to stay away from her for more than three minutes before my body grew cold, at _myself _for proposing this week long punishment… I slid off of the bed as silently as possible with an aching body, and stood.

One flex of my fingers brought excruciating pain, and I winced, letting a long breath out through clenched teeth. If those gypsies weren't already dead—

Dressing took longer than my patience ran, and it was like an annoying game; maneuvering limbs for the least amount of pain, staying quiet lest I wake the sleeping princess. And regardless of my injuries, I just wasn't used to it! Sleeping with another human being? In my tomb of a home I used to stomp around as I pleased, anything to fill the silence when music was out of reach.

And now a week without able hands to provoke melodies made my head spin in its need to stay aboveground where there was music in the wind and songs of the birds. A grave-like cavern no longer seemed appropriate now that I had been above for so long. No song but mine could reach my Hell, and what of Vivienne? How could I drag her down there?

Vivienne…

One last necessary look to sear the vision of Christine into my memory, and I was out the door as shadowed as the ghost I still was.

….

The ship's infirmary was bathed in a sickly yellow light, doing absolutely nothing to help the pallid images of its patients.

Marie Beaumont turned her head as I hesitated in the door frame, but her weak state tugged at me, and I walked the rest of the way in.

A plump woman blocked my path before I could get close enough, and I stared, annoyed, and not in the mood to be congenial when I knew I'd be leaving the public very soon. "Family only," she stated, eyes wandering suspiciously to my mask.

"I'm her cousin."

With narrowed eyes she turned, nearly whacking me with her long braid, and addressed Marie, "Is this true? Do you know…?"

"Erik," I supplied.

"Erik… yes," came the soft reply.

"What is the state of her injuries?" I quickly scanned Madame Beaumont, but the only indicator that she was unwell was the blanched color of her skin.

"Your… cousin," the woman began, scanning a clipboard hurriedly between her meaty fingers, "suffered from blunt force trauma to the back of her head. She repeats nonsensical descriptions of the mugging, so we've concluded that she has experienced some sort of shut down. Her mind keeps looping to the past, as early as her childhood."

"Shut down? How can it just _shut down_?" Minds weren't supposed to be weak… But hadn't mine spiraled when I lost Christine to Raoul? If she had died as Charles Beaumont had…

"The assault's outcome was too much for her to process, and, as a coping mechanism, a mind can curl in on itself to reject the pain." She sounded bored, and I fought the urge to snarl. My mask hid most of my disgust.

Though, at her words, I pictured a mind, silver and shadowed with voices and memories, slowly crumpling like a piece of paper; and, I looked at Marie intensely, almost believing I'd see that exact image transpiring in her skull.

"Will she be alright?"

"It'll take time. Now, sir, if you will excuse me, I have other patients to attend to."

And with an annoyed sigh to accent her words, the nurse shuffled over to another bedside.

Quietly, I approached Marie, her frail form appearing as little as Vivienne. This woman was in no state to care for that girl… And I couldn't put up a wall and pretend no heart beat behind my chest. It felt scrubbed raw and swollen from this trip, and I already began to plan a comforting stay for Vivienne in my home. I would make it another story, the banished prince forced to live in a house belowground… or I could purchase a real one.

"Marie," I whispered softly, afraid that if I spoke too loud, she would crack like glass.

She stared at the ceiling and began to mumble what sounded like, "Mother?"

With trepidation, I leaned closer and looked directly at her, emitting a more forceful baritone in an angel's voice, "Marie, it's Erik." I gently nudged her shoulder with the back of my wrist.

Tears began to run down her cheeks and she whined, trapped in her own head, "Mother, you never told me I had a brother!" She looked around blindly. "You never told me."

I looked behind my shoulder, but only saw the metal railings of more hospital beds, flimsy curtains separating them with a small semblance of privacy. Murmuring rumbled behind them, but Marie and I were virtually alone and untouched.

"Charles!" She yelled out her husband's name, and I sat helplessly, watching her curl on her side and whisper, "don't leave me here all alone."

Suddenly her eyes opened wide and she sat up in the bed, holding her head in her palms from what appeared to be a dizzy spell. "Vivienne, Vivienne… Where is she?"

Not certain if she was lucid, I quietly stated so that perhaps it might alter her waking dreams and ease her mind, "She is alright, Madame."

After jumping from my voice, Marie lowered her fingers from her eyes and looked into mine. Red-ringed and sullen eye sockets, she knitted her brow and winced. The news deflated her tense shoulders, and she opened and closed her mouth a few times before asking, "What did I say this time? Where did I go in my head?" She looked afraid.

"You were speaking to your mother," I recounted slowly, "angry at her, for keeping news of your brother from you."

A sort of haunted look entered her eyes, and she disregarded my existence as memories took over again, saying, "That day… I learned of him when I was eleven years old… I found her diary," her cheeks tinged at this statement.

An uncomfortable feeling crept up my back, though I was not sure why, and I urged her on if only to keep her mind off of the mugging, "What was his name?"

"She never told me," Marie shook her head, the same question marks she must have had as a child rising back behind her eyes. "The diary never said."

She suddenly laughed. "The diary of Madeleine Chevalier, and she even kept secrets from it!"

My blood turned to an icy stone, and then rushed to my ears; the ship swayed with a violent dip, and I pushed my mask harder to my face to in a futilely childish attempt to stop the sting behind my eyes.

"I went off to school only a year after to get away… she was not very stable, you see," Marie played with a locket at her throat, "and there I met Charles." I could hear the tears in her voice, but I wouldn't let the conversation branch away.

"What did her diary say?"

A pause, but I wouldn't look up. "It was almost fifteen years ago, Monsieur… I don't remember the exact words, but I'll always remember the regret." Her voice was tinged with resent, but also a potent wistfulness.

The heart in my chest pounded faster. "Regret?"

"Yes, she regretted letting him go, felt guilt over what she had done… but why would she never have told me? All my life I felt alone; I could've had a brother.

"Charles was the first person to fill that empty space."

I stood up suddenly, my bruised legs protesting.

"Why do you ask?" She asked distantly.

My voice trembled with the ground beneath my feet, and I turned to her… _my sister. _

"Because Madeleine Chevalier was my mother."

**Christine**

**.**

**.**

The storm began from nothing, calm water growing bored and deciding to toss the boat from wave to wave; the sky immediately bled from its deceivingly crystalline blue to a dark grey; and, the chaos inside was as loud as the wind.

Droplets assaulted windows, and the decks became as slick as ice.

I was alone in the vortex of that chaos.

Limping on my bad leg, I gripped a wet railing and stumbled back into the ship's interior. Selina caught my eye first, and I gave an empty smile. Clutching onto her skirts for stability was Vivienne, a frantic Nadir pacing around the shifting furniture and shifting passengers.

Before I reached their circle, a hand gripped my elbow and I spun around with a start, chest heaving in inexplicable panic. Raoul. His eyes frantically searched me for any damage before he gave a nod and dragged me the rest of the way into the warmth of the ship. The crystal chandelier swayed wildly to its own rhythm, projecting the almost effect of a drunken stagehand trying to keep his light trained on the leading lady.

His hand was still on my arm, warm and comforting, but I gently took it off, cradled it between my palms, and then walked over to Nadir on unsteady ground. "Where is Erik?" I yelled, too many other voices doing the same. He looked up and spread his hands out to the side in frustrated confusion.

"He's been gone since morning!" he laughed. "I made him my one responsibility in life, and he could be in the water for all I'm good for!" Then he paused as I felt my face whiten with a cold fear. "Miss Daae, I'm so sorry, I should not have said that.

Forcing a smile, I assured, "He is fine, Nadir. You're a very good friend to Erik, but he's been alone for most of his life…" the smile dropped. "I think he's just fine." I cupped the man's shoulder for a moment, feigning a strength that only just barely existed, and then searched the saloon with frantic eyes of my own once I was out of sight.

….

Like a hypnotist, I hummed sweetly a Swedish lullaby into Vivienne's ear, running my fingers through her golden curls as she lay in my lap, hooded lids growing heavier by the minute.

Raoul watched from a distance, as if looking through a window. I glanced at the ring on my finger as it was covered and uncovered again by her soft hair, and stared back at my childhood friend for a long moment. I tried to picture our future together had things been different, had Erik never entered my life, and it was a strange image. Clearly could I envision the warmth of a fireplace, the cheery laughter of children, the silk feel of lavish gowns, but both of our eyes were always hazy. Searching for something we did not know could exist.

His father brusquely called his name, and Raoul reluctantly followed him to the dining hall.

….

The storm raged for hours, thunder drumming along the water and vibrating the ship, lightning providing the only light other than the fires the passengers could keep alive in the few scattered fireplaces. Candles wouldn't stay lit, nor did the damp air help with the nighttime chill.

Vivienne was still nestled asleep in my arms on one of the settees, fire dimly crackling into cinders, when I heard it. Penetrating the murky dark, a voice whispered my name in my ear, though it was more of a song…

A larger space than I had guessed—I had believed he was right next to me—was then closed, and I felt lips gently, timidly approach and outline my ear. A cold shudder trickled down my back, and I held Vivienne closer for warmth. By the dying flames I made out the outline of his face, the clear sea blue of his eyes.

Relief was potent.

A shift in weight on the cushions alerted me to his location, and then I freed my left hand from Vivienne's curls to seek him, eventually finding an arm in the dark for my fingers to tentatively trace.

For a while, we sat there in the dark, feeling each other's presence deeply, and listening to the breathing questions.

_One week_, and yet I knew I'd come find him sooner. I was _ready_.

When I felt my eyes closing beneath the muggy air, I brushed the sticky curls from my neck, and carefully sat up with Vivienne until I could cradle her in my arms. Erik stood and began to lead me, with that silent understanding we had between us, up the marble staircase and towards his cabin.

The ship was eerie, seemingly vacant, though I knew that was not the case. A clock ticked softly as if hidden underneath velvet. Like the sound of a dream.

Unable to see much at all beyond where the moon streamed into windows, I trusted the bandaged hand at my waist as it guided me around each corner. The click of a door, the creak of its swing, and the smell that was very much Erik.

I placed Vivienne in her bed, moving a swan mask from the entanglement of covers, and then smoothed my skirts. The wound on my thigh ached.

Hesitating an awkward moment, I whispered, "goodnight," to the back of Erik's shoulders as he stood at the window, and then began my moonlit trek back to my own room.

The cool metal of the doorknob stung my fingers, but then I froze before turning. Someone was watching me. I knew the feeling like I knew the sensation of the sun on my skin.

Expectantly, I turned in the darkened hallway and lifted my chin to the silence.

It frightened me how calm I felt, how mysteriously knowing, when warm lips slowly but deliberately pressed to my own. Languid and sharp to thread my veins with liquid passion, then all at once the pressure lessened until nothing was left but the silence, the dark, and the cold doorknob pressed to my back.


End file.
